


An Account of Witchcraft

by nerdygaycas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 17th Century, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Blasphemy, Blood Magic, Credence is 16, Graves is 29, Living Together, M/M, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Protective Original Percival Graves, Puritanism, Religious Content, Salem Village, Sex Magic, Slow Burn, kind of, magick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:49:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdygaycas/pseuds/nerdygaycas
Summary: 1692, SalemCredence Miller was adopted by the Barebone family when he was no more than six years old, because his family was consumed by a devastating fire. Years later, all hell breaks loose as people from the village turn on each other, accusing sisters, fathers and neighbors of practicing witchcraft and bargaining with the devil. There is an unnamable darkness inside Credence, and it seeps out, little by little, each day.Percival Graves is sent, by the Council, on a mission to register the dreadful events that befall the region.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna do the -thou, thee, thy, dost, hast- thing but! i didn't want to complicate myself with archaic terms*shrugs*

 

 

_How blessed is the man who fears the Lord, who greatly delights in His commandments._

 

_1692_

A crescent wave of hysteria was brewing in every nook of New England. Alongside the understandable worries bound to a land recently discovered by those who’d fled the European continent, qualms about a wilderness too fierce to be tamed and daring natives who ransacked villages in the light of day; in addition to the mind-boggling fret for the lack of fruitful crops and elusive preys, besides the atmosphere charged with political uncertainty, something else lurked in the hearts of the people. Rumors of witchcraft had started to spread across the colonies as if gunpowder ignited by the lick of a flame.

Dark, maleficent spirits hid in the woods, awaiting for the innocent who ventured inside, out of necessity or despair, to consume them and offer their bodies and souls as sacrifice to the dark one. Witches roamed towns and villages without restraint, hungry for the blood of the newborn and the seed of men. Lecherous, profane, and foul as decomposed carcasses, their only purpose was the corruption of the Lord’s flock, the damnation of pious people who sought nothing but the acceptance of their savior.

Such tales of horror were whispered and hushed and whispered again by non-magic folks. Terrified of that which they ignored, and fueled by the scriptures of their holy book, it wasn’t difficult to see from where sprouted the root of the unbridled chaos.

Nevertheless, for those who were gifted with magic, the situation escalated to a threatening level. Unlike no-majs what they feared did not prowl in the woods, nor did it ailed the children with mysterious maledictions, no. For the New Englander witch and wizard what accosted them with nightmares and brought a sheen of sweat over their skin even in the coldest of nights when the wind seemed to howl same as a woman giving birth, was persecution.

The colonies were but scattered little towns, uncooperative with one another, blind to the necessity that wasn’t theirs. If the no-majs were divided, then the members of the magical community had been dispersed in the wind like dust, clinging by a thin thread of hope that grew finer each time someone, anyone, was accused of practicing sorcery.

 

_Good Father,_

_My journey to the city of Boston has come to its end at last and without grievances. My steps haven’t been traced, nor have I been suspected by anyone I’ve crossed paths with, not even other magic-folk. Due to the delicate motives that originated this trek I dare not confide in strangers for it would greatly put me in risk of exposure, not to mention it’d be foolish of me; and I know it’s not in the best interest of the Council I am so much as suspected by a child._

_Rest assured detailed reports on the circumstances harrying this wretched land will reach you as soon as I am better settled. I shall be watchful and attentive, the eyes of the Council as you suggested. I will, as well, do my utmost not to intervene, but I do not intend to stand cross-armed if magic blood is to be spilled and it can be prevented with my aid._

_Still, I know the nature of my mission and I won’t jeopardize it. Secrecy is the route indicated by the Wizengamot, and according to its law I shall proceed, as best as I can._

_Your son,_

_Percival Graves_

 

 

_Late March, Salem Village_

The leaves coated the soil when it first had begun. The air seemed to screech like a wounded owl in the dead of night, scratching at the doors and flying through the windows, a wicked wind that tainted all it touched with the sins birthed by the devil.

From mouth to mouth all that was gossiped in the village was a string of ill acts presumed to be done by those who had a pact with Satan. In days of yore, the witches came from the entrails of the somber woods, clad in grimy robes, flesh marked by the touch of the black man; now, they hid in plain sight, they greeted you every morning, they dined with you, they looked after your children when you fell into sickness. A witch was the most inconspicuous neighbor, the most docile daughter.

After interminable hours of sitting on a rickety pew and hearing a sermon built on the undying condemnation of the souls of men that had been invaded by sinister perversions, Credence Miller stood up with numb legs and troubled mind. In his head swirled a cohort of conundrums that followed no discernible pattern, preoccupations agglomerated themselves in a whirlwind that left him exhausted, like the castaway of a shipwreck mislaid on the beach.

Clinging to his hand was little Modesty, with her ashy-blond hair safely tucked inside a white cotton coif and her sallow skin glowing weakly beneath the sunbeams. She smiled up at him as they patiently made their way out of the church, the mob diffusing in all directions, an abundant river flowing into many little streams.

“Credence, take the girls to the house. Mr. Barebone and I need speak with the minister,” spat Mary Lou Barebone, a sanctimonious woman with a heart wrenched by her love of God.

“Yes, Mrs. Barebone,” replied the boy submissively, head bowed down in deference. 

She deigned him with one last disapproving glance from her round crystal eyes, mouth upturned in a scowl, and then scuttled back into the building.

Along with Chastity and Modesty, Credence walked to the outskirts of the village where large vacant lots between the houses were more common than not, and where no elegant buildings stood. Populated by simple thatch-roofed cottages and the occasional two-story home, the timber frames were mostly covered by soil and clay and straw, and very few with planks of wood. They did not speak a single word all the way, a sepulchral procession into the Barebone homestead.

“Fetch me some logs from the granary, will you, Credence? Mother told me to prepare supper,” recited Chastity once they were inside and had caught their breath, without a single inflexion in the tone of her voice. With the passing of each day her livelihood seemed to diminish. Credence wondered how much longer it’d pass until she had vanished from her own body.

Credence nodded and exited the house, making haste for the dilapidated structure that served as both granary and housing for the goats. Outside, amongst a small patch of buttercups, Modesty crouched picking flowers and humming a song to herself. It was about the alphabet, Credence noted in delight, as he busied his arms with chopped logs of wood.

_“In Adam’s fall we sinned all. Thy life to mend, this book attend,”_

It was a rhyme every puritan child knew by heart. Learned from their mothers, it was the fastest and most god-fearing way of teaching the youth their letters at the time they instilled the daunting love for the Lord in their hearts. No one could ever be convinced of God’s love for them, so everyone ended up ridden by angst. There was no room for complacency, only obedience and blind faith would guide one to God’s tender embrace.

“ _Rachel doth mourn for her first born, Samuel—“_

Modesty stopped mid-sentence and small fingers grazed her chin as she tried recalling what came next.

“Samuel anoints whom God appoints,” supplied Credence as he collected a last piece of wood. They were quickly running out of provisions, and soon winter would be upon them, merciless and cold as death. They’d have to venture into the woods for sustenance if they were to survive another harsh season.

“Thank you, Credence!”

 

Later in the evening, Mr. and Mrs. Barebone returned to a dimly lit house. The three children were huddled by the table, candles flickering and wind billowing outside the wood shingles. Living apart from the town centre wasn’t completely terrible, and many neighbors favored it so. Salem Village had been founded relatively recently, with most of its inhabitants having fled the Town in search of lands of their own and a vaster amount of resources. Yet, for the most part, they had encountered barren grounds and wolves that prevented them from further exploring the wilds; even the water seemed scarce to get by. Surviving inland was a tough endeavor, and not many were able to, rapidly seeking the comfort of Town and other cities after a few weeks.

The Barebone family however, had endured. Though modest in their clothes and meals, they were prosperous, and that same stealthy prosperity was what had given them enough allowance to take in Credence when he was no more than five or six years old, and his family had been lost to a fire.

The only adopted member of Barebone household, Credence was treated not unlike a servant, having to perform more chores than any other. Still he was thankful. Were it not for their kindness he would’ve starved to death long time ago, frozen by the faintest kiss of winter and eaten by the beasts. As unwanted as he felt inside the single-gabled house, and as meager as were his rations of food, he was warm enough and had a roof over his head every night.

In the homestead talk was scarce, and if it existed it was usually to glorify and praise the Lord, to revere odes in his name and repeat his commandments. If they weren’t talking about God, then they were reviling witchcraft and all those who practiced it.

Bartholomew was a distinguished associate of the Scourers, persecutors of the occult for many years, with a deep-rooted hatred and scorn for everything that defied the natural order established in the creation. Mr. Barebone, having inherited the prestige as witch hunter from his father and being of Puritan caste, was therefore a man whom one wished not to engage in a quarrel with, for he was always right, the Lord had bestowed upon him an important task and he carried it with great honor and sanguine joy. He was also close friends with the minister of the Village, and frequently found by his side even if their social ranks differed by a speck. Such was their friendship that the minister didn’t hesitate to consult him when preparing his sermons, and constantly asked his opinion on matters of witchcraft. Due to his ancestry, the Barebone patriarch had amassed a considerable respectability amongst his fellow parishioners.

That evening, suppertime was but a clink of cutlery against platters and the occasional sip of a glass. Faces looked gaunt and eerie at the flame of the candles, like specters from a more ominous world. Outside the goats bleated.

The cold filtered through the wood panels of the walls, and Credence shivered as it gusted across his back and slithered over his nape. He was nearly done with his share, small as it was, but he slowed his pace, extended every chewing, not to better savor the taste, since there was not much of it, but to not be the first to be finished. It could be seen as gluttony of sorts, and he didn’t want to be fountain of discord.

“Credence,” pronounced Mary Lou in that brittle voice of hers. A voice that would rather break than bend, and was sharp around every edge.

The boy said a short prayer in his mind, muttering under his breath an _Amen_ silent to all ears, before answering the woman, who looked at him with suspicion and spite, “I saw you today at mass. Say, is there anything of greater value than our God’s word?”

A gulp of watered down stew and stale bread turned to mush in Credence’s mouth, dense and difficult to get past his throat, which had suddenly clamped down and tied, like a hangman’s knot.

“Mrs.?”

“Answer the question, boy,” at Bartholomew’s utterance, dragged through clenched teeth, Modesty and Chastity seemed to recoil in their seats, bracing themselves for one of the many outbursts Credence was causative of.

Credence darted his eyes from one adult to the other, heart hammering inside his chest as a load of stones dropped in the pit of his stomach, “No, Mr. and Mrs. Barebone. God’s word is the only nourishment a faithful servant needs. Nothing is of greater importance.”

“Then why, in God’s holy name, were you staring out of the window so much? Was the old deluder beckoning you to his side, were you tempted to give him your soul?” Mary Lou’s rage was soaring higher, that Credence had disrespected the scriptures so carelessly only served to disdain him more.

The boy’s collar felt tighter around his neck, and below the table his hands were clammy all of a sudden, “No, no, Mrs. Barebone. God is my only savior, I would never give myself over to the clutches of the devil. Never. I exist only to praise the Lord’s holy name. You _must_ believe me.”

If Credence had indeed stared out of the window during mass he hadn’t retained the faintest memory of it, much less of having being tempted by the devil. After hearing the minister repeat himself for endless hours a week after week, the sermons and, in consequence, the service, all seemed the same to his worn-out mind. Various days mingled in a solitary memory of drone voices and promises of both heaven and hell. Every day at church was, at its core, the very same.

It was not with small trepidation that the boy anticipated a word from the Barebone parents, sending prayers for the Lord to hear him out, to have mercy upon his soul. He had done nothing sinful at mass, besides from being a wretched creature by demand of nature since the date of his birth. But he had not been enticed by the devil that morning, of that he was innocent.

“Very well,” announced Bartholomew, mouth twisted in a grimace after guzzling the rest of the stew and wiping his mouth with the yellowish sleeve of his ragged shirt, “I’ll know if you are lying, boy. No witch can fool me; first I’ll have them hanged in the gallows, like the spawn of Satan they are. There is no salvation for witches, son, they’ve all signed the book in their own blood.”

It was as close an approval he’d receive from Bartholomew. The boy thanked God for his mercy and delivered his reply as was expected of him, softly and compliant, “Yes, sir.”

Credence didn’t get to finish the last of his stew, and his stomach groaned angrily in protest as he made for the small, narrow chamber that was his room. A cot, an old oil lamp and a frayed blanket were the only paraphernalia he was permitted. Despite the fact that the room resembled a cabinet rather than a proper bedroom, Credence was beyond grateful to have a space of his own, a little cranny amidst the house were he needn’t hide.

That miniscule amount of privacy had become the boy’s greater source of enjoyment and relief, it was his sole haven, faulty as it was. The thin door and even thinner walls sufficed to hide what transpired to him on certain nights when the Barebone parents abused him or humiliated him until he felt no different than a sobbing rag, threadbare and disposable, and ready to melt under the pain throbbing in his head. On those nights, a soul-consuming terror devoured him from within, like a creature from hell that munched at his edges leaving him raw and bloody, as darkness flowed from him: black tendrils of ethereal ink surrounding him like the flames of eternal damnation, polluting his heart in a twist of fury and hopelessness, and, on many occasions, causing him to wake up over dampened foliage in the middle of the woods with no memory of how he’d gotten there in the first place.

The frequency of the head-splitting migraines that afflicted him escalated with every accusation of witchcraft declared in the village, which was beyond disturbing in itself, since not a week went by without someone being pulled from their house by the authorities, and thrown behind cells to wait for their case to be listened.

Mary Lou’s words at supper had implanted a needle in his stomach, and minute by minute said needle’s girth had increased. Lying on his cot, he was left with a gaping hollow in his middle.

Credence felt a vile and disgusting sensation climb up to his mouth, and the boy couldn’t help retching in the darkness, as quiet as he could manage. Staring once or twice out of the window during the lengthy hours of mass was little crime, but Mary Lou’s eye, not dissimilar God’s, was always vigilant, expectant of any downfall of her brethren so her virtue would shine in comparison to her fellow sinners.

His body felt as if fire burned ardently in the marrow of his bones. He was disintegrating, wasting away in between sudden convulsions that nearly made him leap from his cot. Twisting and turning, shaking like a leaf on the breeze, Credence felt the wicked darkness gaining leverage on him, seeping from the tip of his fingers and constricting his organs. The more he thought about what was happening to his body, the more his mind tumbled and swirled, nearing its own haphazard collapse. The feeling was just like those other nights, but this time it grew faster. He knew it wouldn’t be much longer until he lost all consciousness, thus, with quiet step and fear of every shadow in the house, Credence made it out from the Barebone homestead, and ran beneath the starry, fading winter night sky on bare feet. The cold wind lashed at his skin, and at times it didn’t even feel as if he was running anymore, but as if he was floating, because his feet wouldn’t always land on the ground and then they wouldn’t feel like feet at all. He’d almost made it to the edge of pines when he disremembered all thought, lost in a cloud of black.

 

Fallen twigs cracked under his weight as Credence came back into himself. He was somewhere in the depths of the forest, a clearing where the moon shone upon white and distant. The soil felt cold and slightly soggy, and not a sound could be heard, which wasn’t usual at all, since many animals populated these regions. As he tried to stand, Credence felt a sharp throb of pain in all of his limbs, like the phantom of iron chains wrung around his frame. He could barely move without hissing in discomfort, but he needed to return to the house while darkness still reigned, while everyone else was still sound asleep.

He was well-acquainted with the woods. Being the lackey of the homestead in all but title, thrust on his shoulders the most unwanted tasks, including that of harvesting fruits from the wilderness and hunting game when times were cruelest. And Credence, had taken a certain affection for the shady grounds every puritan believed to be haunted by the forces of evil. The only evil he’d ever stumbled upon when in the woods were his own unchaste thoughts, impure and reproachful, they were solid proof he was sinful, he was human.

With glimmering stars still adorning the sky, Credence crept quietly into the house and up the stairs, wary of any groan of the floor. He imagined his pummeling heart could’ve woken the whole family, but he managed to make it to his room without further difficulty.

Although he felt more relaxed in contrast to his last lucid memory, he was shaken out of his wits. What had he done? How come he couldn’t remember anything before waking up on the bed of dirt and leaves? Had the devil taken hold of his body without his consent?

It wasn’t until dawn, when the sun rose prim and radiant over salmon-painted skies, that Credence put an end to his pitiful whimpering muffled by a moth-eaten pillow, soaking the shabby fabric with saline tears from his weary eyes.

There were many witches in Salem Village. All of them accused by neighbors and family, waiting for a trial, and then execution. They were creatures who merrily covenanted with Satan to enjoy the worldly pleasures they’d been deprived of, selling their souls to the kingdom of ash and fire and eternal pain. Little offense was needed for one’s name to be thrown out in the meetinghouse under suspicion of witchcraft. Living in the lodgings of a Scourer meant he was in greater peril of being accused and judged, and even though Bartholomew could be a little careless with his own kin and didn’t spend much time home, Mary Lou was there to make up for it, with acute eyes, a bloodhound’s nose and even sharper mind, she read Credence like an open book, knew him like she knew every verse of the scriptures.

Credence rubbed the tiredness from his eyes and untangled his sore muscles as best as he could. The slightly brighter sun outside past the windowpane, an impending reminder that he was to get up and milk the goats, then chop some logs and, probably, run an errand or two before having some breakfast.

 

 

_To my Father,_

_I hope you and mother are safe and well, as am I._

_Being in Boston for a couple of days, I learned that the situation in the place called Salem was worse than we had been told. Promptly I made the journey to said town, and have been there for the past few days. Not much later after my arrival, it came to my knowledge that one of ours had been hanged under suspicion of witchcraft, his name was Tiberius Smith, a man of sixty-eight years old. He’d been imprisoned for months, and the sentence was passed without sufficient proof -although no proof should allow this mad butchery-, even by no-maj standards._

_Injustice has been breeding here like a vile and vicious creature of darkness. Everywhere I go there are rumors being shared by neighbors and friends. These people believe witchcraft resides even in the eye of an innocent infant who babbles yet, instead of talking._

_News travel fast in Bay Colony, hence it’s come to my attention that a greater threat is looming these lands. According to hearsay, a bit farther inland, in Salem Village, there’s been talk of what they deem as witchcraft, and real magic too, of course. But as of late, the rumors have turned darker, now they boast not only of nightly pinches and strange marks and dead cattle and rotten corn; a more powerful force seems to be afoot. I can’t be sure what the origin of this magic is, but I am certain it is powerful enough to be of concern._

_As stated by official records, a handful or less of witches and wizards have made of Salem Village their home for the past years. I shall try to establish contact with them, at least to reassure them the Council, and the American wizarding community, hasn’t completely forgotten about them, even if there’s little we can actually do to assist them._

_It may not be my place to say, but I will say it nonetheless, Father mine. This task is futile. My time would be better employed doing something that actually helps our government grow and bloom, not writing down the names of soon-to-be-dead witches and wizards. If there’s no stopping this massacre, what jurisdiction has the Council, if any at all?_

_By the time this letter reaches you, I’ll probably be in the Village, settled and observant of this dark magic I’ve been hearing more and more of. When I learn something useful, I shall send another letter with the information collected._

_I can’t help but ask, has the Council reconsidered taking action against these foul no-maj practices? Will there be any sort of retaliation against this persecution, or must we bear in anguished silence while our brothers and sisters are murdered, along with many innocent no-majs? Did we flee a witch hunt just to fall into another?_

_Your son,_

_Percival Graves_

 

 

Credence felt like a rat trapped in a box, growing wearier after each night of restless and sleep, of feeling himself drifting into clouds of slimy dark smoke. He very seldom slept, and when he did, he woke up drenched in his cold sweat, hair plastered to his face, and heart beating like the wings of a frightened hummingbird. The walls seemed to close up on him until there was no room to breathe anymore, and opening the window could only bring him so much peace.

The night air caressed his skin as he shivered in response to the low temperatures early spring dragged behind. In the infinite darkness, he could see the spruces swaying eerily in the distance, they seemed to call to him, whisper his name.

He knew it was all part of his excitable imagination, or so he hoped.

The only other reason would be the devil hissing his name from the bowels of the forest, trying to enchant him and trap him in his claws. If he let himself believe that, then surely he’d be condemning his own soul to an infinite fate of agony, and though he deserved it, it frightened him.

Goodness wasn’t a thing that came naturally to him, but Credence did his very best day after day, to be deserving of God’s love. He attended mass without delay, he paid heed to the minister’s every word, he read the bible and knew half of it by heart, and he didn’t complain or thought ill of the Barebones. He was kind to Modesty and subservient to Chastity. Nevertheless, gloating about one’s own goodness was no different from committing the sin of pride, so he chided himself and prayed God for forgiveness, an act that was repeated too many times a day.

He stayed perched on the window sill contemplating the awakening of the woods, drowsy and bleary-eyed. The abrupt slip of his elbow nearly made him hit his chin on the wood.

Downstairs everything was still covered in a wake of silence. The family, presumably, still safely tucked in their beds. As idleness was a sin, Credence considered it’d be better for him to feed the hens and put the goats out to graze, until the others were up. And shortly after, he heard puttering and clattering coming from the kitchen, a thin film of perspiration covered his forehead. He was exhausted. The palms of his hands still hurt from the last beating he’d received, though the cuts had healed; for all the hard work he did his arms were sinewy, not being able to grow much muscle on an empty stomach, and his back looked rather feeble from hunching forward too often during mass, encroached in himself and ready to shatter at the first forceful gust of wind.

Like any other day, after having some bland porridge, Credence collected chilly water in a pitcher, and in his room washed himself clean. Orderly, he put on his pair of dusty breeches, a shirt that had seen better days long years ago, and shoes that, only by heavenly miracle, would subsist past the muddy months to come.

In company of the Barebones, Credence made the walk to the church building, where a considerable amount of parishioners was already assembled, occupying several benches by rank and hierarchy. No one was to disregard the order. The minister’s speech was, unsurprisingly, adamant in its attempt to inculcate fear and agitation in the hearts of the laymen. Its sole purpose was to chisel God into their minds, etch him underneath their sinful scalps, and make them repent for their iniquity.

“The people of this village are faithful, _fearful_ servants of God.” Said the minister, with extended hands, surveying the crowd congregated before him, “We honor his name, we worship him, we live by his commands and yet… brothers and sisters – and _yet_ , the devil has made us its prey. Satan! Has come to torment us because we do not love him. Most of us.” He paused, eyes never staying fixed in one place, searching for the weakling, the sinner, “I am aware you have knowledge of the travesty that’s befallen us recently. The devil is tempting Salem Village, and harvesting the souls of the feeble by means of witchcraft, but mark my words when I say _he shall not triumph_! Whoever is accused and found guilty of this most vile and despicable sin, shall be put to death as God commands it. _Those who practice witchcraft, idol worshipers, and all liars–their fate is in the fiery lake of burning sulfur;_ Revelation 21:8.” A murmur of approval spread across the nave, people stared at one another, measuring each other’s evils by simple inspection, “Brothers, sisters… Do not fall for the devil’s witty tricks, for if you do, nothing but hell and eternal damnation shall come to you. I myself, and every other respectable Salem villager, will see to it.”

After the sermon ended, and as was customary, the minister came over to converse with Bartholomew while Mary Lou listened intently, with a cringing smile awkwardly tautening her features; Modesty, Chastity, and Credence stood in silence, three gloomy figures clad in dark shabby clothes, like the statues on those catholic cathedrals, that were a marvelous sight for the eye. What the Catholics lacked in virtue, they made up in architecture. But as all earthly things, stone pillars and sculpted ceilings, time would see to their decay. Salvation could not be found in a building no matter how beautiful it was.

“What’s that?” from his left Modesty’s mouse-like voice came to him, her round eyes scrutinizing the side of his face, brows furrowed in concentration. Instinctively Credence’s hand came to his face, but he could feel nothing irregular about it, nothing wrong.

The minister had taken his leave, Bartholomew matching him in long strides until they disappeared through a back door and into the minister’s office. Two vultures devising strategies to annihilate witchcraft.

“Credence. What is this?” Mary Lou had instantly caught Modesty’s concern, and the woman was now taking hold of Credence’s face, turning it sideways to get a better look of it. Immediately, her eyes went wild, blazed by rage, her voice was deadly but hushed, as if she didn’t want anyone to eavesdrop, “How come there are scratches on your face, Credence? How did this happen?”

There where she touched him, right above the jut of his jawline, Credence felt no pain, if anything only the ghost of a sting. Up until Modesty’s mention he ignored there was anything odd about his face, clearly he could not remember when he’d gotten it, or why, though he suspected it had to do with the foul darkness that seeped from his skin every other night. Confessing to his inklings however, would only earn him an express ticket to the gallows, and though he was guilty and corrupt, he wished not to perish yet.

“I- I don’t know, Mrs. Barebone. Maybe I did it to myself. In my sleep.”

In the blink of an eye his utmost fear was rapidly turning into his reality. All those reprobate looks and sneer remarks had finally a reason to strike him into an early grave. If Mary Lou knew - and she always did - then this was positively the end of his life as he knew it. If not today, she’d start poking and investigating, pushing him to the razor-edged brink, and resulting in many fingers pointed at him, a clamor of ‘witch’ spouting from the mouths of disgusted villagers.

Mary Lou gazed at him with lightning in her eyes. The boy rarely received any kindness, if at all, from her part.

“Hush, boy! Too many witches hide behind pretty faces, and yours, I’m afraid, isn’t even all that agreeable. I hope, for your own sake, you are not lying to me, Credence. The Lord repels the likes of you, and so do I.”

She hurried them then, a shepherd to a herd, and with brisk step they crossed the town. Credence did not dare look up from the ground. He might as well be heading for his execution, harrowed and clenching his fists, nails digging into the palms of his hands, just short of drawing blood. His breathing was labored, yet the more he tried controlling it, steadying himself, the more his emotions seemed to run loose.

Arguing there was laundry to be washed, Chastity excuse herself and ran off to the stream, abandoning Credence with one last look filled with something akin to pity.

“He did nothing wrong, Ma,” mumbled Modesty as she fiddled with the sleeves of her gown.

The eight-year-old had tears watering the corners of her eyes and her nose was scrunched up, trying not to burst out crying.

“Silence, Modesty! This is none of your concern.”

“But, Ma!”

“Silence, I say! One more word from you against your own mother and the devil will sure take you come night.” The girl’s lips sealed tight at the mention of the dark one, but still her eyes pleaded with unshed tears and liquid remorse for Credence, “If he’s wicked, then he should be punished as God commands, if not… then he has nothing to be afraid of.”

Credence stood in silence, mentally praying for God to spare him one last time. He’d ask nothing more of his savior, he’d dedicate the rest of his days to serve him in reclusion. He’d even take the vows of ministry if God asked so of him, the only thing he asked for was for Mary Lou to find no incriminating proof of witchcraft on his body.

“Undress.”

Her voice was cold as ice, and it hit Credence with a predictable blow that hurt just as if it were unexpected. For a fleeting moment he thought of putting up a passive fight, to beg the woman not to look at his naked flesh, to make up excuses for her not to examine his body, to lie. But then the thought scurried away into the darkness, vibrating like a rattle in the hollow space that was the back of his head.

With trembling fingers Credence began to undress, shucking off the pieces of clothing, mindful of his every move, and especially of his tongue. He did not want to utter his prayers under his breath; muttering was a clear sign of witchcraft, and the least he needed was caving his own tomb deeper.

“Modesty, go outside. I need to look for witch marks and it make take some time. Help your sister with the washing. Go on, be a good girl.”

It wasn’t until Mary Lou had repeated herself that Modesty finally stepped outside, closing the door behind her with extreme care. Were she not an obedient daughter, Credence would’ve thought she loitered behind door.

The first time Mary Lou had ordered him to strip to search for visible signs of his wickedness was the very first day he’d come to live with the Barebones. No evil would freely saunter into her home, she’d said. But she had found nothing.

Despite the countless aspects Credence hated about himself, he’d been blessed by the Lord with creamy white skin, unblemished and unmarked, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. Vanity was a sin, but there was a twisted thorn pinned in Credence’s heart, a thorn that emanated a sense of pride at being pure, at least of complexion.

Since then only two other times had he been subjected to the shameful test, and on each occasion it had been worse. Credence was ashamed of the changes his body was suffering, lanky and too thin, he was sore on the eye. Abandoning childhood had added awkward angles to his frame, and self-consciousness made a mockery of him as he tried covering his groin with hands that Mary Lou didn’t dally to swat away.

The woman began her inspection in a clinical fashion, scouting inch by inch of skin, from the top of his head, examining with more care the scratch on his jaw, then trailing down to his chest, his arms, back, groin and legs. Every touch of hers was unsympathetic and shrewd, not warm as human tact should be. There was an impersonal air to her gestures, her mouth set tight as if in repulsion by the task she had at hand.

Nonetheless, weeks had passed without her inflicting corporal punishment to set Credence right, to fix him in the name of God. And so, welts and gashes had healed, leaving behind faded marks that she knew all too well the origin of. Besides, a witch’s mark, though ample in its definition as there was no established standard, differed from regular marks such as that of her beatings. Every New England puritan was in the capacity of recognizing one at first glance, the devil was an enemy they’d been fighting since long.

Fingers digging into his skin, Credence wondered if she could read his sins on the gaunt expanse of his back. Memories of a stolen piece of cheese came to his mind, as well as wandering in the woods when he was supposed to be hunting rabbits for dinner. Even worse, recollections of the nights in which he’d woken up to wet sheets, faded dreams plagued by the sins of the flesh lingering in the warmth between his legs. Credence dissipated such musings from his head, not wanting any more distress to show on his face.

After a few more restless minutes, Mary Lou sighed in defeat and ordered him to put his clothes back on.

“Seems the only mark is that scratch on your neck, boy.”

At her verdict, a mouthful of crisp air filled his lungs, inflating them inside his chest until they hurt. He couldn’t quite breathe, not properly, but all the same Credence tried slowing down with each inhalation, and relaxing his muscles as the breath came out through his nostrils. When he chanced a glance at Mary Lou, she wore contempt on her face, but she had no evidence to denounce him of witchcraft. Oft times, Credence wondered if the woman was always on the hunt for ways to incriminate him, and thus get rid of him once and for all. If that was the case, and it wasn’t difficult to assume it was, then, sooner or later, he’d be charged of being one of the many devil advocates of Salem Village. A single word from Mary Lou, wife of the honorable Scourer, Bartholomew Barebone, might as well be a passed sentence. No human justice or wrath of God would save him, not from Mary Lou’s disdain.

“Quickly now, get dressed. The very sight of you is vile.”

Somehow invigorated and appalled by her words, Credence gathered his clothes from the heap on the floor, and put them on swiftly, relieved of not having his body displayed like a slave.

Dismissing himself with a curt nod he headed out, at first wanting to meet Chastity and Modesty by the stream, but he thought better of it. They could do well without his company. If he was suspected by the village at large, then the girls would follow suit, and he couldn’t let her deaths weigh in his conscience.

On the fork of the path he took a left, a winding trail, rarely treaded, that led to an old dilapidated house, and well beyond the house, a clearing of the forest, where many pine martens and hares appeared during the summer months.

Days ago he’d laid traps since meat was, once again, running low in the house. No matter how much he hunted -which wasn’t all that much at all-, and how many provisions Bartholomew could make himself with, at the end of the week their plates, especially his, resembled a pile of scraps rather than a proper meal. Credence did not know how bad the other families had it, but worrying about that would only lead to sin, as did the majority of things, so he abandoned the train of thought.

Only when he was truly on his own, surrounded by trees that kept his utmost secrets, maybe even from the eyes of god, did Credence allowed his feelings to stray from the puritan yoke. His mind reeled with unanswered questions about himself and about the village, about the nature of witchcraft and the devil. Nibbling at the back of his brain were doubts about God too, and those were the ones that quaked him most deeply. Every other deviation was but a mere extension of the great big mystery that was God.

He shook his head and checked both traps but they were empty, and though it meant getting by with less food and having his stomach grumble till the early hours of dawn, undergoing the kind of pain that nestled quietly in his gut for a long time before finally twisting his insides, Credence was glad. Because he found no joy in killing animals, and he disliked the sight of blood oozing from slit throats, falling on the cold ground.

    

By nightfall the same pregnant, dreadful air hung heavily inside the walls of the Barebone homestead. After supper Bartholomew read from the bible for about two hours, his voice raspier by the minute, but never less vehement.

The fireplace crackled in flames, and illuminated by its glow, it almost looked like a placid scene of a joyous and warm home. The speech of the devil the only smirch on the homeliness.

With great detail, and at Modesty’s request, Bartholomew narrated the noble quest Scourers carried on their shoulders. He spoke of witch-hunting, an activity that, judging by the glimmer in his eye, was more a sport for him than a vindication of God’s design.

“There are many evil things in this neck of the woods, my child. Nasty cockroaches from Satan that won’t die unless we stomp on them. We could bring a whole coven to the ground, throw the witches into the fire and watch them burn here as they will in hell.” Bartholomew was looking at something none of them could see, his brain providing him with images of suffering the of the wicked, “Fire, gallows, stones. It’s all the same to me. As long as those witches receive their punishment, we shall be honoring the name of the Lord.”

Fixed like a nail on splintered wood, Credence remained as still as he could, collecting the words that, like curses, fell from Bartholomew’s mouth. He could see himself being accused, judged, condemned and finally shackled, as he made his way to the scaffold with tears in his eyes.

He’d beg Modesty for help, maybe Chastity too, but they’d be powerless. Defending a witch was as good as signing one’s name in the devil’s book.

“There’s been talk in the Village.” Bartholomew proceeded, “Constable Jones told me more accusations have being flying through his door. More than he can handle. Cattle being killed, crops that never sprout, witches paying nightly visits to men...” He paused for dramatic effect, the man had always been one for theatrics. Credence pondered maybe that was the reason he held on to the Scourer title with such fervor, “More than one report has been made about a demon that lives in the forest, aye. Comes out at night, big cloud of black smoke that spoils all it touches, corrupts it. Minister thinks it’s their leader, the one all witches bow down to.”

The knot in Credence’s throat barred him from swallowing properly, and his tongue was dense mush in his mouth. Hyperaware of his body and its every sensation, he listened and prayed for the reading to be over, for Mary Lou to say it was time for bed, for anything, anyone, to cut the cord. He could feel accusative eyes sliding off of him, although no one was actually paying him any mind. Shouts and insults from the villagers started clouding his mind, so clear and crisp, they snowballed in a frantic manner.

If people were aware of the ‘black demonic cloud’, they were aware of _him_. The fact that the villagers ignored who the demon was, mattered not. In little time, the constable, aided by a myriad of witnesses, would fit together scattered pieces, and they’d lead them to the farthest edge of the village. One knock on the Barebone house door and it’d be the end of him.

Had he given his soul to the devil and could not remember? Was it wise and fair and right to let them find out, give himself up and accept divine sentence?

“They gather in the woods, men and women, to worship that demon. They sacrifice animals to Satan and drink their blood to gain power – power no regular person could ever have. And they sin not only of witchcraft, no. Those folks – they lie and steal and seek fleshly pleasures-”

“Bartholomew,” warned Mary Lou with an edge to her voice. She always seemed reluctant to let topics of the flesh be discussed.

The man almost snapped his neck to look back at her, the flames shining in his eyes, “Do _not_ interrupt me, woman. They need to know. About the witches and the demons, the sinners of sodomy and bestiality that plague our lands and curse our crops.” He flicked his tongue, and focused once again on the girls, who seemed petrified and would not refuse to take their leave if given the first chance, “Say, Chastity. If the devil promised you riches and silk and beauty and pleasure, would you write on his book?”

“No,” as expected, Chastity’s voice was a droll, swift and unflinching. She was perhaps the best one of all three of them, nothing wicked or unnatural could ever be expected of her. Nothing remarkable either.

“And ye, Modesty? If the black dog whispered your name and gave you orders in return for sweets and gold, would you make his bid even against our Lord’s commands?”

“Never, father” her voice was small and breakable, and reminded Credence of a wounded bird.

Mary Lou lifted her gaze, forgetting her knitting for a moment, and smiled at her daughters, “They’re good girls, fearful and obedient, like our Maker intended all children to be.”

“Aye.”

Inevitably, Bartholomew’s focus was then on Credence, the hunched figure sitting on the floor, partly concealed by the shadows. Hugging his knees to his chest, the boy found no respite and no relief in the bodily shield he’d unconsciously made of himself.

“Boy, would ye? Write on his book with your own blood?”

“No, sir. I praise only Jesus for his is my life to give,” tremulous, hopefully only to his own ears, Credence replied. He adored God, he adored Him, he adored Him, he _feared_ Him.

With a sneering smile from his gimlet eyes, Bartholomew pressed on, “What about food? Would ye give yourself to him if Satan offered you a full belly by the end of each day?”

As if on cue, Credence’s stomach groaned. A warmth pricked at his cheeks, but his answer was unwavering, “No, sir.”

Fueled by a desire to taunt him or humiliate him, Bartholomew took a long drag from his pipe and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, “Would ye sign if he promised you pleasures of the flesh, boy? If he seduced you, and then after lay with you?”

Some torture this was, even more shameful than a trial for witchcraft. Every other person in the village had the potential to be a witch, and all who were, were scoundrels of the same black pit, wicked and sinful in the same degree. On the other hand, what Bartholomew was hinting at, what Credence knew inhabited deeply within his spirit, resonated with a different, more disgraceful clamor.

Though his mouth had gone dry, Credence managed to croak out a third and final _No, sir._

“Ma checked him for witch marks today, Father. She found none.”

Modesty interjected. Though young in years, she was wise and kind, and not seldom Credence believed she was the only one keeping him fed and sheltered.

“Aye?” scoffed Bartholomew, his eyes assessing Credence’s frame like a hawk.

Mary Lou huffed and stopped her knitting once more, and in her gaze scorn overflowed. She must’ve preferred Credence to be marked all over with the signs of his wickedness, branded like an animal. She despised him since he’d first crossed the threshold of her house, always holding a grudge against him, ready to lash out at the smallest of his mistakes, “Yes. But he still is no good. There’s something funny about him, but nothing a good beating won’t mend.”

Across the walls shadows of the flames danced eerily, conjuring apprehension and terror in Credence’s heart. He was no witch but he was just as guilty. Mundanity had filled his every pore and sin had made its dwelling in the space between his bones and his soul.

Outside a raucous wind carried the howls of the beasts, an evil chanting that rang sweeter than the loathing of the Barebone clan. Lost to the jaws of the forest, who would truly miss him?

Thereupon Bartholomew acquiesced in his wife’s request, and off they were sent to bed after sharing a last prayer in the holy union of the family by the hearth.

Unable to do anything else than turn on his cot, prisoner of endless threads of ill-fated thoughts, Credence ruminated on the idea that had come to him short hours before. Staying in the village would inevitably augment his peril, and if found guilty, God’s mercy wouldn’t be a kindness granted to him. Jail and rejection and undiluted hatred would be thrown his way, heavy as stones, and just as hurting.

He wasn’t certain when or how his inner darkness had flourished, but if there was the slightest glimmer of hope then he’d take it. Take it and never turn his head back, leave Salem Village behind while wasting away on his own, festering by himself in the wicked nature of his soul, harming no one, existing in communion with God in the wilds of the colonies.

If God was just with his children, then he alone should be responsible of judging him.

With his heartbeat pulsing as a drum in the back of his throat, Credence made his choice and prayed for guidance and protection. Quiet like a mouse, he went down the staircase and opened the door to the raven black night that engulfed the country.

Enshrouded in a soundless veil, his steps seemed an intrusion to the musical humming the trees whispered. Under blinking stars and a silvery glowing moon, he entered the forest and deeper and deeper he went, until the trunks of the trees, maples and oaks, grew taller, and the leaves swayed over his head, quivering in the breeze. Inside the bowels of everlasting mystery, a different tune was played, one with many different sounds, screeches and growls and hisses; a symphony orchestrated either by god or by the devil, that was beautiful and terrifying all the same. Navigating messy webs of roots and over fallen branches, past wild brambles and across thin streams of mountain-born water, Credence’s legs grew tired, and fatigue draped over him like a heavy mantle. Exhausted and having lost his north, he made his bed on the foot of an elm. The irregular terrain beneath him wasn’t easy on his back, but it felt safe nonetheless. Eyes closed, his mind whirred with images of wolves and witches, that with sharpened teeth, would no doubt feast upon his body while he slept. Come morning, he’d be a lifeless body and maggots would have his eyes, sucking them dry of all color, leaving only darkness to dwell in his sockets.

 

 

 

_To my Father,_

_After further inquisition, it seems that what the no-majs call a ‘demonic cloud of smoke’ is no more than an Obscurus. Though not uncommon, I believe this one harnesses immense power. Am I to kill it, this child, for the sake of our self-imposed secrecy?_

“Fuck.”

The lethargic buzz of an incipient headache had begun to assault him. Lit by the glow of a candle, Percival stared at the cream-colored parchment, blank and patient, it laughed at him. For the fruitless mission the Council, advised by his own father, had entrusted him with. For the forsaken wasteland infested by poisonous ignorance in which he was stranded. For agreeing to be here in the first place. And for the unbearable sense of blame that afflicted him for being witness to the demise of so many innocent people.

Crumpling the letter in his hand, he threw it on the floor without much thought, and got on his feet to stretch his legs. It was past midnight, and the inside of the cottage stifled him, permeated with worries he wanted not to fret over. A serene walk beneath the moonlight and away from the specter of his own uselessness would appease his mind, thought Percival.

And with a flick of his hand the timid flame died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyy, let me know your thoughts :P  
> also, the 'government' is referred to as the Council bc macusa hasn't been founded yet


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after all this time?  
> always<3

 

_And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one._

A silent predator by daylight, once the sun had set and the sparkling firmament unfolded, the forest bared out its fangs and bayed in the blackness, becoming alive by grace of all the wondrous and mysterious secrets it preserved within its limits while extending far beyond the edge of itself, pawing at the world at large.

A vision of darkness, the place so many no-majs dreaded seemed like a blessed refuge for Percival, away from the sanctimonious and bigoted atmosphere that humans so proudly inhaled until intoxication; the hooting of a lonesome tawny owl and the chorus of crickets and grasshoppers rang in his ears as his mind took wings of its own and flew around the inevitable. The purpose of his long journey across the province of New York by no-maj means, to his greater displeasure, was doomed to fail from the second of its conception. He was a more than adept wizard, honorary Ilvermorny graduate with plenty of experience and expertise in many fields, but with a particular interest on magical security and wizardkind protection. At age twenty-nine Percival expected to have gained prestige on his own merits, but the Council, feeble as a fawn taking its first steps, was anarchic rather than functional. Just as no-majs, wizards had issues with the foundations of their government. Too many factions, each seeking its own benefit without any concern for the others’ well-being. There was a nefarious lack of unity even in the face of adversity. Selfishness, it seemed, didn’t dilute in one’s blood in the presence of magic; it was a human disease.  

A sphere of light hovered in front of him casting a faint glow that shrank and expanded as the volume of vegetation surrounding him varied. The world, Percival thought, was very much like a forest come nightfall. In the dark were those less elucidated, no-majs who believed Satan to be the cause of all their misfortunes; inexplicability equaled witchcraft, and all that was related to witchcraft was punishable by death. On the other hand, the wizarding community resembled the globe of light except it did the opposite: at times darkness loomed closer wizards shrank in fear, and only when danger weakened did wizards retrieved strength and compassion. It was a precarious and ineffectual equilibrium, and there was no doubt in Percival’s mind that one day the wheel would break and no _reparo_ would be able to fix it. After all, what comfort did a forgetfulness charm provide once a life had been taken?

In his eyes Salem Village was a land cursed solely by the ignorance and malice of its own people. Walking through its few streets under guise, he was witness to the avarice and ill-intention of many a person, the narrow sidelong glances one threw another, the insincere smiles as they greeted at the meetinghouse. Disputes had a history of erupting at the slightest of offenses, and, by registered account, puritans had a strong proclivity for taking to court whoever displeased them. Civilized a practice as it was, it also spoke of how little room in themselves they had for forgiveness.

Gondulphus had surely commended him the dreary task to ground him, or to put him through smoldering fire and give him a taste of what the real world out there was like, as he so often repeated. His father, gifted and stern, was rather reticent and, in consequence, Percival was seldom granted his affections when growing up. Absorbed in the building of a new world -- a better world –, Gondulphus Graves had forgotten it took more than just a pair hands. 

From impenetrable crevices furtive creatures growled and cackled, the sounds mingling in the night wind, subconsciously deflecting Percival’s steps.

He walked without paying too much attention where he was headed. But that did not matter. Lost under the black velvet skies of Massachusetts, he’d stroll right through the gates of hell and not give a damn. It almost seemed preferable to abandon the cause before he had to start writing down name after name of the deceased, humble traces of ink over pristine parchment, whole lives summarized in two words and two dates. Cursed from birth for being different, marked for slaughter since the first lungful of air.

Zephyr ruffled his hair, and caressed his face despite the upturned collar of his coat. The new season brought with it blooming flowers and livelier animals, it painted the skyline a brighter shade of blue, and combed the grass with ink of green; it warmed the rays of light that spilled from the sun and made the wine sweeter in the mouths of men, yet it also brought death sentences served on platter of gold. The muscles of Percival’s jaw clenched, and a heat rose to the back of his neck. He couldn’t help but being furious at, not only the appalling circumstances that terrorized his people once more, but the inefficacy of the Council, of his father. Still, Percival was just a man, and bearing the name of Graves was simply not enough to herd the entirety of the American wizardkind under a fairer, safer banner.

He ushered his thoughts into another direction, because years of thinking about the system’s repair had been as fruitless as an apple tree in wintertime. The source of the problem, if it could be called as such, was magic, or the suspicion of it. Minor or grand, displays of uncanny abilities were bound to send no-majs to the border of lethal hysteria, as it had been proved for centuries.

After days of prowling around the village without being noticed, Percival realized most incriminations weren’t about true wizardry at all. Accusations stemmed from long-harbored feelings of displeasure from one person to another; with just one glance witches could inflict upon their victims pain greater than that of the cruciatus curse. A tap of the fingers and the possessed girls fell to the floor to writhe in pain, claiming the fires of hell to be burning within their bellies; the witch had scraped their insides. It was infuriating. There was no reasonable explanation, guilt lay exclusively on motive. The villagers were ravenous beasts, hungry for the blood of their own siblings, avid to see others wither away while they rejoiced in the grace of their Lord. It disgusted him at the time it pierced his core with pity for those who were subjected to the attacks of maddened people. Innocents rotted in cells: the majority of them free of all guilt, another unquantifiable amount, guilty of having cracks in their masks.

As he kept walking the fog grew thicker in his eyes, like a cloud of smoke that embraced him, suffocated him. A looming cloud, as the villagers said.

The sound of parchment crumpling resounded in his ears, crisp and abrupt, ripping the veil that for some time had enshrouded him. An obscurus. The idea wasn’t all that far-fetched, in fact, it seemed to fit the situation effortlessly. Obscurials were rare, not because there was anything unique about them, but because they were nipped in the bud, at times, even by hand of their own family. Savagery was a common human trait unfortunately. Many parents faced with children beyond their control abandoned them to their lucks, some even resorted to murder in order to save their own skins. Other victims of this foul magic were captured by no-maj witch-hunters, and quickly given a swift sentence. All the same, a witch was a witch in spite of their youth, and as such, deserved nothing more than an expeditious journey six feet under.

If his conjecture was true, then an obscurial dwelled in Salem Village, and it was rather powerful. Villagers spoke of nights as black as the fur of the devil’s hound, and inexplicable gales that slew cattle and sheep. It was even rumored such wind had caused the death of a previous minister.

Most obscurials he’d heard of lived no more past the age of ten, but this one – if it was an obscurial at all -- seemed different. If it were a child, then he or she was exceptional beyond precedent; the black cloud traveled great distances, from the Village to the Town, and farther still, grasping the coastline. A thrilling shiver ran down his spine at the implication of such magic. That said, whoever hosted the obscurus was helpless and doing a poor job of controlling it; the child would doubtlessly pose a colossal threat in the eyes of the Council and the Wizengamot. Secrecy was the cultured name they’d given to the act of sweeping mistakes under the rug.

The supposed obscurial was in extreme peril, Percival knew. No-majs would condemn the child, leading it into a dank prison cell with scarce food and water as sustenance, to await the unfolding of a trial destined to found him culpable from the very first second; additionally, witches and wizards would be inclined to consider the child a security threat, and thus, get rid of him, discreetly.

Thereby, sharing his theory about the obscururs with the Council would be no different than ordaining the prompt execution of the unidentified youngster. If only he could find the child before anyone else did, before it was sent to the gallows, then his expedition would not have been for naught.

An angry screech disrupted his thoughts, followed by a mantle of silence that smothered the symphonic spectacle that was the forest by nighttime. Percival gained awareness of the weight of his steps, the ruffle of his fabrics. Dimming the light that hovered in front of him, his hearing sharpened, as he listened intently for any snap or creak. As the nocturnal creatures grew quieter, the moon glowed with brighter zest from up above. A chaste orb that smiled down at the people of Salem, keeping them from ripping each other’s throats in an empty blackness.

The ground turned softer underneath the soles of his boots, and a scent of brimstone and ashes coiled under his nose. Percival walked mindful of his gait, following that trail of seemingly palpable anguish. Shadows danced joyfully between the trunks of trees.

Slowly, with his heartbeat pulsing fiercely throughout his entire body, he found himself standing at the foot of a great elm tree with endless branches extending like arms into the starry dome, and by its roots, posed like a fallen angel, the pale figure of a young man cocooned in itself, badly sheltered from the hostile winds of an early spring night. Though scrawny and gaunt of face, he appeared to be no older than eighteen. Only a boy.

That the boy had to fend himself against the dangers of the wilderness, made Percival wonder what hardships the poor creature had been forced to endure. The tatters that covered his body, a symptom of his adverse condition. He slept at peace, as if he belonged by the base of the old tree, curled over the bed of soil and roots, the delicate back of a hand acting as a cushion for the side of his face. Had Percival been less confident in his own senses, he would’ve believed himself in a reverie, or more appropriately, lured by evil spirits with a vision of innocence; had it been no more than a hallucination, his actions would’ve unraveled in the same way.

Yet simply staring at the boy’s nestled frame, pondering about all the reasons that led him here, and feeling the rusty gears of his own mind been set in motion wasn’t enough. The mystery of who he was and wherefore he was sleeping in the woods by himself, could wait in a corner along with the hundred reasons that objected to helping him, stating it was, by far, not the cleverest idea. Nonetheless, dismal times would not suck away Percival’s sense of human decency. His north pointed where his principles lay, and his conscience was a tightly-wind yarn ball. It had earned him an antagonistic repute.

As he approached the boy and crouched by his side, he was able to see the gentle rhythm of his chest, rising up then coming back down, languorous, unhurried. The ashy smell still lingered, carried by the breeze and tousling the dark tufts of the boy’s hair. Percival whispered _boy_ , not wanting to startle him, but his murmurs went unnoticed as did the gentle shaking of the boy’s arm. Even through the thin layer of cloth, a coldness more suitable for a corpse in a hearse, reached Percival. Still, weary breaths; skin so pale marble fractured itself in envy. Percival grazed the boy’s cheek with his fingers to ascertain his guess, unerring. The boy’s temperature had dangerously dropped, his skin, white silk.

With the strange boy in such state, there was no time to loiter and ruminate on the possible repercussions the intervention could unleash. Ordered by the Council, craftily manipulated by his own blood, Percival felt used. Used and discarded, sent to live amidst the distress of a self-destructive town, only to watch his like being murdered. He’d be damned if he let a frail boy die on his watch.

Percival collected him from the ground and discovered he was too light in his arms, almost as if the bones that sustained him were hollow within. From somewhere in the dark, the shrill bellow of a cougar vibrated like an omen of woe. Adamant not to surrender to absurd musings, Percival closed his eyes as he held the boy closer to his chest, and with a single image in the forefront of his mind, the soil gave up under his feet, twisting and dissolving, while the echoes of the forest descended into a wheezing hum that, like a fine needle, punctured the strangled serenity that flooded the space between the four walls of the room.

Candles lit themselves at his command as he laid down the boy with care greater than required. A warming charm to the blanket, and soon he was tucking a complete stranger in his bed, admiring his features and speculating how much time would pass before he had to obliviate him.

Percival was not one for charities, much less grand displays of open solidarity, but there was something about the sleeping boy, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. As seconds crawled into minutes, the pungent scent of ash that had followed them faded away, being replaced by a subtler, more pleasant fragrance. Glimpses of a sunnier past that didn’t belong to him translated into a mellifluous cadence that waltzed across the room and sliced into him with blade of contentment.

Exhaustion had finally started to nibble at the back of his eyes, and it wasn’t long until Percival decided he wouldn’t be writing on his records shortly. Heavy and sluggish, he took a seat and commenced his wake over the boy’s sleeping body. Draped over the Stygian quilt and with the lines of his face softened, the boy didn’t pose much of a threat, if anything, he was the description of vulnerability. Breakable, prone to be swept away by gentle winds.

In the midst of the chaos that sprawled like a monstrous vine, and the impending sense of uselessness that beset him and made him feel like the invisible step in a staircase -- the ghost that made you trip over -- seeing over the boy gifted Percival with a sense of purpose. The enjoyment and relief of having to care after a young man instead of unsuccessfully guarding the safety of the wizarding community, was an indicator of how low he had stooped. At any rate, as things were, he was but a pawn in a greater game, one in which he had neither hand nor say.

Shielded against the ruthlessness of the night by the rough walls of a magically-assembled cottage, Percival felt at ease. Were he to close his eyes, he could espy a peaceable nation and pretend he lived in the belly of the woods, that no Scourers hunted after him, and that the boy on his bed was a friend staying over. Slipping in and out of his thoughts, the very name of the village, Salem, tasted different in his mouth. Wraithlike and obscure, like a story told so long ago the details had warped and formed into a whole different tale.

The marigold candle flames burned lower as the grating of the fireplace crackled farther away. Percival did not take his eyes off the boy even as his eyelids grew heavier, and before taking notice, before chastising himself for his negligence, sleep stole his consciousness.

 

 

Credence awoke early out of habit. The dawn chorus had seeped into his ears and grown louder, rising his mind from a sea of dreams and pulling him back to his bitter reality, prodding at his limbs with biting gaucheness until he was stirring and rubbing traces of sleep from his eyes. Expecting to find rough sheets over his chest, then cold soil under his hands, he was genuinely surprised at the touch of warm wool against his also warm skin. The fabric was too soft and his sleep hadn’t been plagued by tendrils of darkened fear, which was reason enough for him to scatter away from the blue quilt as if it were blazing coal. He was inside an unknown house, and had slept on somebody else’s much snugger bed. Bewildered and astonished as he was, it took him some time to discover he wasn’t quite alone. By a far side of the room, a man sat on a chair, head slumped over his shoulders. By the deep slope of his frame, Credence could tell he was tired, the slightest of snores spilling from his mouth.

Had the man taken him in out of the gentle kindness of his heart or by a more perverse reason, Credence didn’t want to stay to find out. There sat a man whom he had never seen, an utter stranger who was either too brave or foolish, to offer his own home as shelter for a boy he’d found in the woods when the moon was up high and malignant spirits loafed on the branches. Everyone knew everyone else’s domestic diatribes in Salem Village; whoever this man was, he was not a villager. He could be a witch. Or a Quaker. Credence wasn’t sure which was worse.

With his heart beating like a wild beast in his ears, Credence leapt from the bed and made for the nearest exit, but his legs had yet to catch up with his brain, and he felt the thud of his body against the floor before even falling. In a flash, the man had awakened and was standing tall on his feet, towering over the lump that was Credence, eyes still unfocused and brows furrowed. He didn’t look like a witch, but then again, no witch was equal to another.

“Are you alright, boy?”

The man’s voice was rasp, like gravel from a riverbed, yet Credence couldn’t perceive any animosity in his tone. Flabbergasted, he kept quiet and wide-eyed, not daring to move from the crumpled mess he was, containing his breath without thinking, and thinking without being aware of his thoughts. The mice might as well have eaten his tongue.

The man spoke once more, Credence knew because he saw his lips moving, forming words, but the sound did not travel wholly to Credence, all intent lost in midair. What Credence could not ignore, was the firm hand being proffered to him. Moved on impulse rather than reason, he took the man’s hand and was swiftly helped to his feet. The palm was softer than his own, and he wondered if the man belonged to a richer caste, if he’d seen a day’s work in his life.

There was no sin in wondering about another person’s ancestry, but he did not wish to infuriate God when the birds still chirped at the first rays of the sun, ergo Credence clasped his hands and closed his eyes asking for forgiveness in a quick prayer, along with words of gratitude for being permitted to live a day more in the Lord’s grace. Before he was done he heard a faint huff and then a series of footsteps, followed by the hearty roar of a fireplace. Manners were deeply ingrained in puritan children from an early age; infants were considered fully-formed people, if in need of greater assistance to avoid temptation. Not wanting to be perceived as discourteous, Credence trailed after the man and out into the parlor, then all the way across it to the room that served as kitchen. The walls were stark, and they seemed even more impersonal than the Barebone’s. Stripped of all sense of homeliness, Credence couldn’t help but feeling as if he himself were a stain in the blank pulchritude.

“It’s dreadfully early, boy,” said the man in a flat voice, not once staring at Credence as he puttered around the kitchen, rummaging through the shelves, stopping at his finding of a silver tin, “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

Mute and foggy of mind, Credence merely stared at the man, raking his eyes over him, trying to put a name to his face, and feeling apprehensive as to why he had saved him from the feral maws of the devil. Under his bare feet the wood lacked its usual dawn chill, in fact, a pleasant warmth seemed to embrace the ambience.

“I shall take that as a yes.”

Planted on the spot like a tree, Credence observed the man as he fiddled around the kitchen in search of a pot, a puzzled expression adhered to his handsome visage. He seemed hesitant but brisk, perhaps not used to making coffee, or not having prepared it in a really long time. Mr. and Mrs. Barebone weren’t fond of the beverage, not to mention, it wasn’t easily acquired. As a result, Credence had never tasted coffee. The process of its making struck him as alluring; an air of unpracticed elegance in the man’s strides as he traversed the room to reach for a bronze skillet in which to spill the coffee beans. A silent bystander, Credence was delighted by the constant cracking ricocheting against the metal, then the faint aroma unraveling as the roasted beans were ground in a mortar, the man’s arm moving mechanically, his semblance annoyed. It resulted far too easy to be distracted by the thriving scent of the infusion as the kettle boiled in the hearth, and it gave him good reason to evade the man, whose eyes Credence felt scorching the back of his neck. He could have stared at the flames for the rest of his days, entrapped in its fiery gurgle.

Matching clinks rang at his side. The man had placed two objects on the table. They were cups, Credence noticed, but cups unlike any other he’d laid eyes upon. In the Barebone homestead, puritan rigor was of the utmost importance; opulence of any kind was seen as divine transgression. Mugs and plates were carved from logs chopped by his own hand. Humility was the only way to please God, for who were they, sinful children, to surround themselves with shiny and expensive items? Not even earthly kings should indulge in lavishness, much less isolated men who lived the heart of the woodland.

The man took a seat as he poured the steaming black liquid into the white porcelain cups, which had delicate figures painted in varying shades of blue, their brim was golden. Credence imitated the man and sat down across him, wrapping both hands around the teacup, marveling at the spreading heat in his hands.

The man drank first, hissing as the liquid hit the back of his throat. Credence followed suit, not before gazing in amazement at the glistening hue of the rim. The flavor was heavy, almost overwhelming. More than simple liquid, it felt like a substance coating his tongue and trickling down his gullet, hitting the empty pit of his stomach, and dispersing its warmth to the very tip of his toes. This man’s coffee tasted stronger than any drink he’d have, richer; not watered-down.

“I drink mine black, but you can add some sugar to your own.”

Carried away by the flavor Credence had forgotten about the man’s presence. He had his stare anchored on Credence, instigating an uneasiness to bubble inside him. He was still at a loss for words, so he settled for shaking his head. He couldn’t possibly take more from the man. Quaker or foreigner, he had shown immeasurable kindness in saving Credence, in lending him the covers of his bed, and providing him with a sizzling cup of coffee.

Sip after sip Credence kept his eyes fixed on the bottom of his cup, spine rigid with the effort of keeping himself upright, strands of his dark hair falling over his forehead.

He heard a sigh preceded by the startling sound of porcelain clashing against wood, “Why were you sleeping in the forest?”

Like a swarm of bats, memories from the previous night lunged at him. There were too many answers to that question, and none he could give without giving himself away. Whether the darkness of his soul, the bloodthirst of the villagers, the long-endured cruelty of his foster family, or the deep-settled fear that inhabited in his heart, the man would think less of him, and rightly so. Credence was corrupt, and sharing the mass of his sins was a burden he did not wish for anyone else to carry.

Remaining obdurate in his silence drove the man nearer to exasperation. He ran his fingers through his raven black hair, and meditated his words before uttering them, “Are you in danger, boy? Are you being followed?”

Credence shook his head once more, fascinated that the man thought him to be in danger instead of labeling _him_ as dangerous. Through one of the windows he could see the light growing brighter, soft navy shades outlining the shape of trees and leaves. By this hour the Barebones would be rousing, and soon they’d be wondering why Credence wasn’t up and about yet. In many ways, he was the farm’s rooster.

“Look, boy… If you’re hurt, or you want my assistance, I need you to speak to me. Can you do that?”

The man’s voice was surging same as the waves that crashed against the rocky coasts of the Colony, but when Credence spoke his voice amounted to no more than the cautious whisper of the seafoam, “Yes, sir.”

An expression akin to amusement glimmered in the dark orbs of the man’s eyes, and a side of his mouth quirked upward. The gesture lasted as long as the flap of a butterfly’s wings, and then he was back to creasing the space between his brows, a hand lightly scratching the stubble on his jaw.

“Do you have a name?”

“Credence, sir. Credence Miller.”

“Good. That’s good.” The man appeared to be satisfied with the answer though Credence doubted the two words meant much for the stranger. He’d never been particularly good at reading people, but he was having a hard time simply skating the man’s surface; whichever his identity was and whatever incentives steered him, they were buried beneath a thick layer of ice. Unapproachable, he was an otherworldly creature, a supernal being. “Are you hungry… Credence?”

The man was already standing up and retrieving both cups, then scuttling back into the kitchen area, fetching packets from the shelves. He was hasty and sophisticated, yet his movements bled away all confidence once the actual preparation began, just as it had happened with the coffee. From the lingering tact of his soft palm to the unseasoned nature of his modest cooking and the healthy glow of his cheeks, Credence’s theory of him being high-born materialized. It was unheard of, a true noble inhabiting some forgotten forest in the New World; eccentric, but not impossible.

The joyous harmony of scents that flooded the air, swelled Credence’s heart. Such appetizing aromas had never infiltrated his nostrils and filled his lungs. Each passing second exposed a captivating new experience to Credence. Every sense became overwhelming, but at long last a porcelain plate was presented before him, and placed atop it were slices of bread garnished with cuts of meat and cheese, hard-boiled eggs and fresh fruit chunks on the side. An additional bowl contained porridge, dense and sprinkled with a light-brown powder. It was more than thrice the share he was used to.

Gluttony was an unaccustomed sin for Credence, but with the feast splayed before him, his stomach growled and churned eager. Steam wafted lazily above the dish as the bread crumbled in itself, fluffy and lightweight; a whiff of buttery cheese teased at the tip of his nose. At first dubious, Credence began to eat and the more he ate, the better the food tasted in his tongue. It warmed his belly, setting hefty and filling him up before he was finished. Engrossed in the instinctive act of bringing bits of food into his mouth, chewing without major finesse and then swallowing the mouthful, the man across him became part of the background. Unobtrusive. From him came no disapproving words or gestures, only the penetrating gaze of an outsider.

Midway through the porridge that was thick and sweet and didn’t taste stale, the man spoke to Credence, whom he seemed more interested in than his meal, which remained mostly untouched. “Have you any idea, perchance, what’s been happening in the village lately? Why are so many a people being imprisoned?”

“It’s the witches, sir,” he answered dutifully after gulping down the dollop of gruel, “Our God is weeding them out – the wicked, -- and punishing them for their sins.”

The man seemed unconvinced, but he hummed in agreement all the same. Skepticism, although not downright unexampled, made him uneasy; Credence hadn’t made the acquaintance of anyone who didn’t believe in some sort of evil that warred against the Holy Spirit, and non-believers were jumbled together with the witches anyhow, often suspected of signing the devil’s book, for who else would flaunt their peculiar, aberrant beliefs in the face of chaos.

More questions arose over the rest of the meal, and even afterward. Bound with order and objectivity, it resembled the interrogations held in the meetinghouse, except that in the place of gasps and cries from an impassioned crowd, Credence’s answers were met only by understanding nods and contemplative eyes. Unlike the authorities from the village, the man effectively coaxed the words out of him without threatening him with lakes of sulfur.

They talked of witches and demons and the devil. About how _he_ preyed on the weak to seize their souls in an abiding contract. But Credence noticed the man did not enjoy the talk of witchcraft, and often drove the conversation towards the town people, curious of their background, their ethics, the diatribes and banters among families, and the men whose ranks were higher. He wished to know more too about the black cloud of smoke that the villagers were fond of describing so vividly. “Is it true? A… big cloud of black smoke?”

Curdled blood, skin thin as paper. Credence could feel his stomach wrong side up, a wave of nausea clawed up to the back of his mouth. He barely managed to shake his head, but the man’s interest had banished; he retired the dishes, and paced for a while, stopping to stare out the window.

He was older than Credence, but not excessively so, and he didn’t appear weathered by the strains of life. Black of hair and brows, and with eyes as murky as the open fields past midnight, he was a dark gentleman, yet Credence had no trouble picturing a halo crowning his head.

“I must be on my way now, though I’ll be back by late noon. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”

“I couldn’t, sir! I wouldn’t want to disgrace your home,” he protested, concerned for both their safeties, not necessarily conjoined. 

The man stared at him, relentless and still. Eventually he broke into an easy smirk and asked, “Are you a _witch_ , Credence?”

The response came like a reflex, immediate and steadfast, “No.”

“In that case, I fail to see in what way you could possibly ‘disgrace my home’, as you so oddly put it.”

Darting a hasty smile at Credence, he retrieved a black coat from the back of a chair. The garment was of a deep shade of black with gold trims lining the left side, the buttons were golden too. The sight of him, clothed in a sumptuousness unbeknownst to Credence, was unquestionably out of place. The cottage was too plain, undeserving of his obvious refinement.

Credence tried to express his gratitude before the man departed, but realized he hadn’t offered his name. Hence, he asked, wanting to condense in a single word the compassionate soul of his rescuer, “If I may ask… By what name should I call you, sir?”

The man squinted, his dark-framed eyes seemed to be searching for something inside Credence, and whether he found it or not, he extended his hand and said, “Samuel. Samuel Burroughs. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The name didn’t quite fit him, Credence thought. It was far too common, shared by hundreds if not thousands of other settlers, but it was an agreeable name nonetheless. The man, Samuel, lacked the enthusiasm of his own statement.

 

Sunlight wasted away as Credence explored the forest. He didn’t recognize the terrain, or the canopy, furthermore, the zone emitted a different acoustic, which meant the cottage was located farther from the village than he’d ever been. The realization could’ve given him wings to soar like the birds that glided in the sky, not a single speck of remorse.

He found his way back without toil, the sun diving slowly in the western canvas. The man, Samuel, had already returned from the village. Sat at the ebony writing desk, he seemed fully concentrated on slithering his quill across the parchment, then scrunching the sheet and starting anew. Credence didn’t want to be an intrusion, so he gathered the best means of expressing his gratitude was by leaving the man be.

Knees pressed to his chest at the doorway, Credence’s eyes glimmered with hope at the unforeseen turn of fortune God had granted him. Fascination was too small of a word to describe how he felt about Samuel, or the fact that he had no livestock or crops, and dwelled so irrationally far from every else. Intrigue was a more fitting term to cluster his feelings.

Enchanted, he contemplated the clearing before him until the shadows stood taller and goosebumps covered his skin. Samuel greeted him with the mere hint of a smile; a warm breath that enveloped him whole. 

 

With no place to go and no benign ties to his past, Credence decided to let things run their course, and relish what the Lord had given him without attempting to find mars in his design. As a result, he saw Mr. Burroughs as a caring benefactor sent from heaven to aid him in his direst hour. He stopped searching for the devil in the darkness of the man’s eyes, and chose to admire their glisten and their warmth. Transfixed by the deftness of Samuel’s fingers as he cooked and wrote and spoke, Credence willfully opted to ignore the destinations of his meanderings, all the strange places where he did not say his feet took him. It was, after all, none of Credence’s business. He was but a guest in the man’s house, in his life; a dissonance in his quietude, and as such, he continued thanking him by inconveniencing him the least. If he didn’t cause any trouble, if he stayed put and did whatever few chores there were to be done, if he answered the man’s questions truthfully without giving himself away, then that had to be enough.

The cottage was of modest structure, even more so than the Barebone residence. Tucked away in the dark folds of green, it consisted of four distinct rooms: a main parlor and a kitchen area, divided only by spare pieces of furniture, a dormitory and a washing room. All walls were white and unadorned, severely contrasting against the obscure floors. It seemed a provisionary shelter of sorts, a place where one could expect a pariah to hide in. Days ago the house would’ve unnerved him, but now it appeared an oasis in the midst of a world brought to its ruins. A slice of the promised land come to Earth.

In the man’s companionship, Credence encountered the kindness that for so long had eluded him. Kindness of words and intent, kindness that manifested itself in two solid meals a day and freewill of demeanor, kindness that capered in the liberty of his musings, because for the first time he was allowed to think. To think and wonder and imagine, and so he did. Many ideas crossed his mind like shooting stars, several of them disappeared before he had measured their depth, which was for the best, especially since too much thinking led to idleness, and idleness could only lead down the path of immorality.

The first days were difficult for Credence in the sense that he wasn’t sure what was expected of him. By morning they ate breakfast, Mr. Burroughs always refused any assistance.

Thereafter the man would immerse himself in odd books. Books that weren’t overrun with the Scriptures, nor any other religious message, some were written in symbols he couldn’t recognize. At some point, Mr. Burroughs would leave, but before nightfall he’d be back, sometimes carrying a bag of aliments and sundries, yet the frown on his face was perennial. It seemed to Credence that the air of the village and its people didn’t make the man any good. Credence’s olive branch consisted of docile silence, a steady and persuasive remedy that cajoled Samuel into his orbit, and pushed him to ask Credence questions about his day, exchanging a few phrases throughout supper. Anger and annoyance dissipated with each shared glance, shrinking and drifting off to burn with the logs in the fireplace.

A subject less uncomplicated was that by the end of each day, when the owls hooted and the crickets sang in disparity, they were forced to share the bed, though not for lack of insistence on Credence’s part.

“Don’t be foolish, boy. I won’t have you sleep on the floor when the bed is spacious enough for the both of us,” He didn’t say there was enough room because the _boy_ was mostly skin and bones, but Credence knew that was the main reason why it was comfortable without being crowded.

The man, Samuel, had insisted, without using his voice. A vacant space made out of unyielding silence that tugged at Credence’s better judgement until he caved to a reason that wasn’t his own.

It was the eighteenth night since his arrival, and it felt just as awkward to lie on a bed that was soft rather than coarse, to cover himself with woolen fabrics that weren’t frayed, to not feel famine scratching the walls of his stomach, and not crying himself to sleep, because no matter how grateful and afraid and pitiful he was, staining the man’s sheets with the rainfall of his emotions would be too vile of an offense.

Dressed in a borrowed plain nightgown, he lay on his side of the bed, and watched as the man wrote in his leather-bound journal. Most pages were inked already, but the man scrawled on as if it were his heavenly duty, so Credence figured it was related to his work.

He always wrote with purpose, dragging the tip of the pen without hesitation, dipping it back into the pot with no qualms, knowing which strokes his hand would delineate fully. Absorbed in a world of letters, he tended to forget that another person breathed the same air as him, that a boy nearly half his age observed him with innocent fervor from underneath the covers.

It was a delightful distraction to see him hunched over the desk, a hand carding strands of his hair or draping along his nape. His shoulders tensed and his head slumped forward, his eyes seemed to tire inexhaustibly around the edges, and a yawn or two would escape him before the last light was blown out.

When long silences had turned into easy conversations, a sense of familiarity settled, disregarding all pretense, and stripping away the armors that intuition had clad them in. Credence liked the solid sound of the man’s voice, it made him feel as if he were traveling across the flatlands just before dusk, when stars shone timid and both the sun and the moon shared the sky. Whenever the man spoke, freedom prickled at his flesh. Openness. His voice carried acceptance in each note.

“Mr. Burroughs,” he hadn’t meant to speak, for it was not his place to do so, but his thoughts had run amok and gotten mixed with his feelings. There was nothing in particular he wanted to talk about with the man. What he desired was to hear him speak. A single word would suffice.

That said, Samuel was either too focused or had failed to hear him, which wouldn’t be unusual.

Back home, with the Barebones, Credence would often be asked to repeat himself, mainly by Bartholomew. He suspected the patriarch’s aim was to humiliate him and wound what was left of his pride, perhaps to make of him a humbler servant of God. None of them ever actually cared about what Credence had to say anyway.

“Mr. Burroughs?” he tried again, clearer and louder, but to his disappointment the name fell into an unresponsive void. Not so much as a single twitch from the man. He sighed and reprimanded himself for his insolence, his disrespect. A working man wasn’t to be bothered with trivialities, and the childish need to listen to another person’s voice in order to feel comforted fell into that category by all means.

Remorseful and ashamed he settled under the covers with his back to the man, body curled in itself. The incessant glide of the metal nib and the spontaneous clink of the glass pot lulled him into sleep, as the darkness in his chest remained tight under lock. Still, it caressed the undersurface of his flesh, a purr turned into sensation, that dragged against him in a guilty manner. The tearing of his seams didn’t worry him anymore, but he still feared, somehow, Mr. Burroughs would find out and, in consequence, throw him out and accuse him, or at the very least, be repulsed by him. The more he thought about it, about the man finding out his terrible secret, the warmer became the purr against his ribs, scratching and snipping, advertising a frightful night devoid of memory. In its place, Credence centered on the occasional tapping of the man’s boot, the squeaking of the wooden chair as he stretched his back, the harmonious melody of wild sounds that squeezed between the wall panels. He closed his eyes, and envisioned the man being exactly as he probably was, and the image was as good as any sleeping draught.

By the next day restlessness won Credence over. Having nothing else to do other than eat and wander through the woods felt wrong; he was useless. Since before he could remember he’d been taxed with chores that amounted themselves in a great pile, leaving no opportunity to think of anything else than prayers that cycled around the same thought of god cleansing his soul, and asking his forgiveness for being impure.

Once the sun had passed its zenith, he decided to tidy up. Not much work was needed seeing as so little belongings inhabited the cottage alongside the pair of them, but he recalled the desk was a bit cluttered as were the kitchen shelves.

Plates and cups, pots and empty bags, all scattered and in no discernible order. It took him less than fifteen minutes, and it had only taken him so long because he could not stop gaping in wonder at the fine china that his dirtied fingers clasped. Like murals from European palaces, the blue prints sketched delectable forms across the white porcelain. Figures of fantastic animals and intricate flowers, they seemed to swirl before his eyes. Smooth, polished, precious; he’d never touched anything so beautiful. Scared of letting the crockery fall to the ground and have the delicate pieces shatter, he returned them with exceeding care to their rightful place, and made his way to the bedroom.

An impersonal chamber, a gush of warmth spread at the top of his ears upon gazing at the bed. Guardian of their sleep, it lay unmoving and disenchanted. It stared back defiantly, the contours of their bodies imprinted over the marine blankets.

Ignoring an issue didn’t ever stop it from unfolding, this he knew from experience. But his sinful admiration for the generous man was a problem he preferred to tuck in the farthest corner of his mind, where the line between fantasy and reality stretched too thin for the eye to distinguish, where he could almost correspond _him_ to the realm of dreams.

More than a few blank sheets of parchment were neatly ordered in a stack, whereas others covered part of the desk, and some littered the floor, crumpled in balls. The journal was gone and only a handful of books were left. Tomes bound in leather as well as velvet and vellum, some inelegantly sewed at the spine, most with pages yellowed by time. Quills were discarded haphazardly, as if the man didn’t care for their cost, as if they were expendable and not a luxury only lettered men had access to.

Amongst the myriad of pages, one caught his eye. It was dated a few days back, if his memory was to be trusted. The calligraphy wasn’t meticulous, but it was graceful and easy to comprehend. It was more a draft than a letter. A message forgotten and never delivered.

 

_Father,_

_As days go by, I keep failing to comprehend the purpose of this mission. I see the awful unraveling of the maelstrom you wish me to write about, but I am neither a historian, nor a philosopher. My place is not here if I can’t do anything to remedy this maledict, any fool in possession of the capacity to see and hear and write would be fit to do this job. All I can report is the same old story, people being accused, people being tried, and people being unfairly sentenced to execution._

_The tale is repeated time and time again, with little variation of detail. Is it really your intention for me to stay here and simply record the horror? I wish to do some good for this country, and I fear no such thing can be done if I’m to follow the Council’s (and your) exact instructions._

_Your son,_

_Percival Graves_

 

A year short of reaching three decades of existence, Percival felt alive in ways he hadn’t before. Beneath his skin, an ethereal tingling kept him company throughout the day, never receding. His heart thrummed incessantly; him, only the bearer of the wild-beating organ that rattled and fluttered in the cavity of his chest. It was a curious sensation, to be so keenly aware of one’s own body during wakefulness. It was maddening and disconcerting, and not unlike being under the influence of Amortentia.

Graves being his surname, and having a position in the recently-formed Council meant he was no dunce. Percival was aware this sudden, brazen change had been caused by the boy he’d found sleeping at the foot of the elm tree. Credence.

Credence who had been so light in his arms and frequently scurried his gaze away from his, who ate with contained excitement, who wandered for hours in the woods and was able to spark Percival’s curiosity in many different ways.

The boy was a gentle dove, but he was lightning and thunder too. The serenity and the storm; he’d come to shift the contented monotony in which Percival had resided during the last years. In his paperwork he’d found stability, in his erratic missions, an idealized fallacy of purpose. He was a man who sought the greater good expecting far too little in return. Thus, he rarely saw within himself. It was a view he could live without seeing.

Yet the boy’s presence alone became an exercise in introspection, and Percival wasn’t sure he liked what he saw.

He longed for something greater, something purer. With his kinfolk dying at the hands of savages, and having his hands tied by the Council and the Wizengamot, he was but a marionette for them to play with. A cog in a great machinery, greased and diligent, he was efficient, and in his efficiency lay his lack of importance. Replaceable, even to his own father.

He’d written him a letter last night, asking to be given a more adept station in the Council, never intending to send it. He did not wish to part in case his request was accepted. Leaving meant packing the cottage in a pouch, and abandoning Credence to his luck. Because Percival felt responsible for the boy’s safety, because in a wicked twist of fate he’d stumbled upon him, and now Credence was his to keep and look after.

However, he couldn’t ignore the fact that the foundations of their placid relationship had been cemented on mistruths. Samuel Burroughs was a fabrication concocted for the sake of magical secrecy; a no-maj man with a background so vague and hazy it had to be true. By omission and creation, he had succeeded in masquerading himself from his guest.

Apart from his name though, Credence didn’t know much about him. He didn’t ask, perhaps because he was scared that in doing so, questions would bounce back and he’d need to disclose ghosts from his past.

They were but grasping at straws in quicksand, switching roles between savior and victim, breaking fast by the morning, cohabiting in tangible silence, and sharing a bed come night. And for Percival that was the strangest thing, sharing a bed. He was no blushing virgin, and in his sheets more than a few partners had found pleasure, but after the act was done, sprang the resolute need to be left alone, unperturbed, unconquered. He craved touch as much as any other man, but he had no acute desire for intimacy, for there were better uses for his time.

Yet lying next to Credence provided him with a newly-discovered sentiment. He reveled in the secureness of his presence, the gentle pattern of his breathing, the dipping of the mattress as he shifted in dreams. The gulf between them was too large a distance, still Percival wasn’t crazed with lust. If he wanted to please Credence it was by means of reassurance and protection, of being able to see him and let himself be seen, but even that was too great a risk.   

The sight of the village was the same as every other day. It was the dullest part of his task, having to watch daily activities take place: seeing genuflected figures in church, beady-eyed authorities that looked down on others from their mighty podiums, condemning their brethren just because they could.

Hours stretched into eternities, the rattle in his chest thrashing with more vehemence, and then he was off into an alley, invisible to the people and spinning off his center, disapparating in an inaudible pop of sound, landing in a glade that was concealed from all likely intruders. He smoothed his clothes and walked toward the cottage, the journal heavy as a yoke in the inside pocket of his coat. A pleasant hum in his ears.

As he crossed the threshold Credence’s presence irradiated warmth. Pure and wholesome, he was a flare of truth drifting in the spring breeze. Percival hadn’t learned yet to navigate the boy’s waters, he was a riddle. Lost in his darkness, Percival felt like a lost boy.

The boy’s greetings consisted of wary _good afternoon_ s and _how do you fare_ s, or more rarely, _I made you supper_ , but he was met with none.

The wards were still up and the place looked exactly as he’d left it, if anything a bit cleaner, but it was hard to tell. There hadn’t been much of a mess to begin with. It was intuitive and rational to go into the bedroom and so he did.

Never lost, just quiet, Credence stood by the desk with a sheet of parchment gripped so fiercely in his hand the knuckles had gone white. His eyes glued to the paper, Percival thought he looked paler than usual. Like a moth attracted to the flame, the boy had seen something that wasn’t meant for him, and as a result, he had burned.

“Credence, what’s all this? My missives are hardly yours to read as you please,” the curtain had fallen at last. Rather than concerned, he felt disappointed.

“You are not… Your name – is it Samuel Burroughs… sir?”

“I—no. No, it’s not.”

Costume ripped, no sane puritan would call their children Percival, and his name, albeit not all that uncommon for wizards, wasn’t popular at all in Credence’s kind. Ever since the boy had woken up that first morning, ever since he’d said his name corresponded to that of Samuel Burroughs, Percival felt a nagging sensation in his insides, that told him he did little more than spew endless lies at his guest. The pantomime bordered on the absurd. The self-fabricated persona he hid behind was ragged and lacked substance, moreover, it was a barrier that forbid him from being who he was. A coward caught in a web of lies, perceived as a despicable impostor.

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose, and reflected on _why_ he was housing Credence when there were no real bonds tying them together, no obligation to protect him from whatever harms the world could inflict upon him, and even though he found no definitive answer, the conundrum in his mind in regards to the boy untangled, if only by the length of a needle.

Powerless in his capacity as both a wizard and a patriot, a need for caring and protecting and guiding had risen within him like a stem reaching up to the sky, and like a tree in full spring, he desired to shelter Credence beneath his shade.

“Sir?”

“Credence… “

“It’s fine, sir – I… understand. It’s not my place to judge you, but lying -- The Lord would not approve.”

The boy had a recurring tendency to make everything revolve around the Lord, which was not surprising based on the fanaticism puritans professed. His belief in God was perhaps Credence’s strongest pillar, perennial and deeply treasured, thus he had developed all facets of his soul, like a flower turning to the sun. Bathed in the light of his own faith, Percival had no doubt it was his resilience which had allowed him to withstand the torments of his past.

Surrounded by a rabid multitude of liars and defamers, the idea of pretending to be someone else much longer and possibly driving the boy away, seemed intolerable to Percival. There was no god he could pray to, as he’d seen Credence do on several occasions. But he knew magic, and standing in front of Credence, whose eyes were open wide, and whose hands were clenched at his sides, posture rigid, Percival felt the ancient thrum of energy coursing through his veins, a chant of olden, a choir of mages.

“You are not mistaken, Credence. Dishonesty never bred any goodness, therefore I cannot criticize your judgement of me. Not ever should I have been anything but honest with you,” the boy appeared to be expecting him to lash out at any moment. “My name is not Samuel, nor is my surname Burroughs. I only said that because I – I’m working, and my job… It requires certain level of anonymity, for security reasons.”

“Oh… I see.”

“But I do not want to keep lying to you. After all, we _are_ living under the same roof, even sharing the same bed every night,” it had been only the fraction of a second. A quick glance above his shoulder, the subtle reddening of the boy’s cheeks. Yet in Percival’s eyes, it made the boy shine under a different, sunnier light. What before had been an affable and frail face the color of ivory, now appeared to him a Renaissance sculpture of both seduction and virtue. What before had been an unassuming desire to protect was gradually twisting down paths where crimson roses scenting of yearning pricked at his flesh, drawing blood by the rustic sharpness of thorns. “Percival Graves,” his voice came out hoarse with the realization, a sensible shift had taken place within him, a snapping sound that shook him out of himself for an instant, “My name is Percival Graves.”      

The month of April had rolled in through the windows, sweeping away the cold vestiges of winter, and embellishing the woods with fresh bursts of color in the shape of wild flowers and richer hues of green. Nurturing the creatures of the forest, it had also quenched the demons that tormented Credence. This Percival knew because by night the boy’s sleep had found calm, he rarely trembled and turned, and kept mostly to his side, breathing evenly but making no sound.

Birds chirping and petals unfolding, their grace could not parallel the boy’s ethereal beauty, even when he looked a step away from utter fright. A delightful treat to the eye, the time spent under Percival’s strict care had filled in the boney hollows of his cheeks.

“Percival?” echoed the boy that he’d come to think of as _his_.

Consonant and vowels rolled in his tongue, put together in the right order and produced with uneasiness from the concave valley of his mouth, they were a fine tune to hear.

 Once again he was someone, he was himself, and to a man who’d practically lived in confinement for two lengthy months, with no contact but for a heap of letters addressed to his name, it felt like the validation of his own existence.

“Yes.”

The boy’s eyes darted to the floor, and he chewed the inside of his cheek, clasping his hands together, fiddling with his fingers. Thereafter, he looked up and stared at him with piercing gaze, peeling away layers of falsehood, seeing right through him. “I’ve never met a person named like that, sir.”

Puritans, blessed – or cursed – with names less than flattering but always god-fearing, it didn’t astound Percival to hear those words from Credence. “I’m certain you haven’t. But I assure you, it is not that unique.”

Somehow, revealing his identity lacked the significance he thought it’d have, for what was a name if the rest of him ought to remain in shadows? Percival Graves was a powerful wizard rivaled by very few in combative expertise, cunning of mind and with a strong moral compass. A no-maj man working in secrecy, he was not. Disclosure of his name counted for nothing if it did not convey his design as a person; his essence lay hidden still, and it was as much a betrayal as saying his given name was Samuel.

The boy in his care was gentle and pure and severely misguided from an early childhood. Misconceptions about the world he lived in and the own skin he inhabited had been instilled in his core, and had made lodgings out of the marrow of his bones; he was young, but he was wiser than his years, stubborn in his convictions, yet so fragile and unalloyed. A gemstone fragmented by self-rejection. Percival felt he lacked the heart to continue the charade.

“Come here, Credence,” he strode over to the bed and patted the space next to him. There were innumerable ways in which what he was about to do could go awry, but all shriveled when equated to lying to Credence, “Listen… “ his hand on Credence’s knee was a welcomed diversion. Percival could focus on the stretch of his own fingers, their sudden flexing, and the lines across his knuckles. The gesture felt more intimate – and possessive – than the many nights they’d slept side by side.

Credence’s lips were parted, richer in their distinctive pink tone and slightly wet. Enraptured by either anticipation or something else, the dark orbs of his eyes bore heavily on Percival. A single drop of Veritaserum and he’d be confessing to the least decorous thoughts, and, to his amazement, the boy leaned closer, as if chasing after his warmth, closing in the space between their bodies, relishing in their togetherness unaware of his own actions, propelled by instinct.

“I believe I owe you an explanation of sorts.” The boy began to protest, a rapid shaking of his head, but Percival held up a hand and shushed him. “I do. Now listen,” insentiently, his hand had traveled higher, spread over Credence’s lower thigh, it squeezed with gentle pressure to garner the boy’s attention. Then, he lost himself in the soothing circles his thumb drew, and his voice was low in his ears when he spoke, “My current job requires me to investigate and register all witchcraft accusations indicted here, in Salem. And track their development, as you might expect. I am neither a minister nor a justice, or any other kind of authority that may be presiding over the cases. You may think of me as a mere visitor, a passerby. It’s against the wishes of my superiors for me to say this much. See, I’m supposed to flog myself into secrecy, so to speak. I should not even be talking to you, my boy, much less have you living with me.”

“Shall I leave then, sir… Percival?”

“No, no, Credence boy! I would never ask that of you, I do not want you to leave. For one, I strongly disagree with my superiors’ views, and, I know for a fact, you haven’t got much of a choice. Sleeping in the woods in the dying winter is not common for the privileged,” his mouth curled up sideways in a heartfelt smile, one he wished Credence would accept as an honest token of understanding.   

At his side, Credence was listening intently, clinging to every word with resolute attention. He was sharp of mind, and Percival could see, by the slight narrowing of his eyes, that he knew there was something else, something the man wasn’t telling him. But he’d been raised not to question his elders, and old habits rarely expired. A guest in Percival’s house, he wasn’t to pry and demand explanations there where they weren’t given freely.

“These people being accused of witchcraft … they are not _evil_ , Credence. Your justice system and your neighbors are doing them a grave disservice. I want to fix that,” he tried again, “I am not unlike some of them, but that doesn’t imply I’m evil either. Do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, my boy?”

He had intended to say it all at once, but the words had formed into a snowball and down a steep slope they’d rolled.

Credence was staring at him fazed, hearing without really listening. Impressionable and conditioned to think inside a very small box, his thoughts must’ve convoluted into a mess unable to take the words for what they were.

“I – yes,” he swallowed, the bob of his throat the victor of Percival’s focus.

The boy was hurriedly growing in beauty by the second. All of him, angles and curves, remarked themselves in darker strokes, and Percival wondered how he hadn’t _noticed_ him before. The gap between them could’ve been saved by a slight tilting, but all Percival did was stare into the dark pools of his eyes, awed by the skin heat that exuded through the fabric of his breeches, hearing the tiny exhalations that escaped Credence. He was like a flower in the springtime, blooming beautifully and embellishing his surroundings with the delicacy of his petals. Percival had always been selfish, and as he gazed at the boy the feeling increased. He wanted to pluck him from the root and pin him to his lapel as a boutonniere, keeping him close to his heart, and letting his delectable scent deluge him.

He planned on saying more, but he was lost in the boy for an inexplicable reason. Percival had always been one to appreciate beauty, but even if Credence was physically exquisite, there was something beyond his grasp, an unnamable quintessence that lay at the very center of his being.

“You are a good man, Mr. Percival. You – you took me in, gave me shelter. And a bed to sleep in. You are not cruel, and I have known nothing but kindness from you, sir. Whatsoever it is you do, I’m in your debt. And I would never judge you for it, ever. You may trust me.”

At the tip of his tongue lay the word that would inevitably tip their little haven upside-down. A single word that would effectively end the string of lies that, like a snake, had coiled at the feet of their bed, creeping up the windows of their conjoined solitude like poison ivy. A grimy thing of dark, his identity had never felt as much of a burden, a crime.

“Credence,” he wished he could say it and be done with it, whatever the consequences, but it wasn’t his card to play. Behind him stood the ghosts of all the living witches and wizards that feared for their lives in the false safety of their own homes, and an army of memories from those sacrificed in the fight for acceptance pounced on him. He wanted to bare himself as he truly was, let Credence _see_ him, but in acknowledging his real self he’d be tearing down the wall wizardkind had paid in blood with, “Thank you.”

Unable to estrange his heart from the pain and rage hidden in his sleeve, and not wanting to trouble the boy any further, Percival lingered in silence. He’d let the boy believe there was no more to be known about his line of work, and in doing so, spare him of any moral struggle that would only quake the ground beneath his feet, and swallow him whole into a hellish land of condemnation.

To overlook certain facts was to lessen the weight on the boy’s back, and carry it himself, like cross over his cowl muscle, feeling it dig into his flesh. A poor imitation of the boy’s true savior.

Having cleared the mist in his head, Percival’s senses reconnected with his mind, and they seemed heightened. Now that their close proximity was no longer to be ignored in favor of moral dilemmas, came the worm of curiosity, caving and eating away the shroud that separated good sense from folly. Thinner and thinner it faded, as he stared at the curvatures and slants and softened hues that were Credence’s visage.

In the arcs of his brows Percival encountered a land of mystery, in the shadows beneath his eyes he saw traces of serene violence often revisited. The corner of his mouth, that charming junction, was the promising edge of a chalice containing the elixir of life and death, fused with lust and innocence and profanity. He wouldn’t oppose to having time stop indefinitely, and consume sweet nectar from the boy’s plush lips.

But to corrupt Credence was like corrupting virtue itself, like steering the path of righteousness to the wayside. He was young and suggestible, naïve, and didn’t know any better.

If asked, Percival had no doubt, the boy would comply to his demands, disregarding his own convictions in favor of repaying the kind man. Nonetheless, Percival hadn’t been sent to the jowls of the wolf to woo a boy in the peak of his youth. Far more important issues were his to look after, and so he disposed of the idea of taking things further with the boy.

He retired his hand from Credence’s thigh and stood up to quickly survey the desk, perusing for any other mislaid documents, yet found none.

 

 

The new name – or rather, the right name – suited the man better in Credence’s opinion. The syllables were foreign in his mouth, but there was poesy in them. Whimsical, he thought. A name from a faraway land, proper of a man whose past was but a murky cloud.

As he lay in the bed that night, and sometime after Percival had fallen asleep, Credence articulated the name in silence, savoring the way his tongue and lips moved.

“Percival Graves,” he would repeat the twosome like a litany on a Sunday morning. Again and again, until they had lost meaning. Hence, he tried to recover it by stealthily staring at the figure by his side.

In all their nights together Credence had kept to his side, back facing the wall, nearly falling off the edge in an effort to occupy less space. But seeing the man sleeping profusely, and encouraged by the steady choir of the forest, Credence stared without inhibitions at the face he’d come to care deeply for more than he was willing to admit to himself. Percival Graves was handsome in a beatific way. In the way that made Credence want to beg for mercy and crawl in repentance for every sinful thought he’d ever had.

The devil seemed to have greater power in the woods than in the village, perhaps due to the lack of worshipping that took place in its midst. Credence felt him, the little dark man, filling his soul and polluting it with temptation and desire. Despite being given relief from the corrosion that used to embrace him like the arms of death every time the sun set, he was now plagued and asphyxiated by the other darkness, the one that was shameful in the eye of every woman and man, the one that branded him as a lecherous deviant, a creature bred for iniquity and sin. If God’s ever-watchful eye were indeed upon him, Credence’s fate had been sealed.

His eyes traveled south, from the sharp jut of Percival’s jawline to the expanse of his chest, covered by a loose white shirt, and then farther down, to the place where blankets draped over his lap. It was an affront against his privacy and his confidence, but Credence couldn’t really tear his eyes away, wondering how different the man would be from him, wanting to acquaint himself with the man’s bare body.

Notwithstanding, exhaustion won him over shortly after, his mind reeling with a clash of prayers and impurities, the oldest fight of sanctity versus evil. That night, unlike any of the nights before, Credence slept facing Percival, relishing in the new-found warmth that came with it.

Over the course of the next days the confession seemed to have made a major impact in their relationship. Comfortable silences were now filled with courteous and friendly words, and more often than not, they talked for an hour or two before going to bed.

They would speak of everything and nothing at the same time. Remarks about the weather and the forest, observations on what was happening in the village, banal discussions that made them laugh, but couldn’t peel their layers completely away. They were strangers living in the same house, eating together, caring for each other, but strangers still. Having little in common, Credence regularly ended frustrated after their seemingly deeper conversations. He wanted to know more about Percival, to have him narrate stories about his family or his friends, to get a sliver of who he really was, but he remained a secret. Even if he spoke for hours on end, Credence would end up scratching the back of his head, lost and confounded, and hungry for something he wasn’t even sure existed.

Nevertheless, a bud of friendship had taken root between them. He could feel it.

Credence rarely thought of the devil those days, busy with thoughts of Percival and their pleasant life together. He was not a entirely ingenuous though, Percival was in Salem for a specific reason, and whenever his job was finished he’d be likely to depart, and Credence would be left on his own once again. That, and other reasons he desired never to label, made him value their time spent together, to cherish the present and disremember all other worries, for those would stay even after Percival left.

He liked watching Percival. Whether cooking, writing, reading or simply lying on the bed, it brought a sense of completion to Credence. They gravitated towards one another, as if driven by invisible forces, and it wasn’t unusual for their hands to touch.

As maddening as it was welcomed, the weight of the man’s hand on his shoulder was guilty of breaking Credence from within. Even worse was the pressure of said hand when it slotted perfectly in the small of his back, and lingered there like a heated point of leverage. Percival seemed to barely notice the effect his skin had on Credence, or maybe he cared not for it. In any case, it was a blessing, because he didn’t shy away from Credence, if anything he grew fonder of letting himself be in continuous contact with the boy.

From the village came daily news of faithful parishioners being accused, even acolytes fell prey to the greedy clutches of Satan, but those worries were at back of Credence’s mind. Dazed by the quiet comfort of his new life, he was only spellbound by Percival.

And as days succeeded each other, with every waxing and waning of the moon, an undeniable affection had ingrained his heart with the fierceness of iron shackles. Anticipation was met with childish giddiness as soon as the sun sank behind the rows of trees, and by the time he was tucked beneath the sheets watching Percival write at the desk, his heart soared and dropped and trembled, like brittle branches in the wind. Now they shared a bed, but not merely as strangers, not even as comrades. There was something else, a profound intimacy that manifested in the absent space between their bodies.

Percival would blow out the candles and climb under the covers. As if on tentative reflex, Credence would creep into the extended hollow of his arm, burrowing in his heat, laying his head over the man’s chest, and falling asleep to the sturdy beating of his heart.

They didn’t speak of the drastic changes their sleeping arrangement had undergone, but there seemed to be no need, for it had happened gradually, and just like dew sprinkled over the grass at dawn, they didn’t question it.

The simple act of breathing reinvented itself when they lay together. New, undiscovered, fascinating; inhaling didn’t differ from eating dessert from the devil’s hand, neither did exhaling veered from receiving benediction by God’s own mouth. A dichotomy of nature, Credence was sinking in a well and he could only dig deeper.

Had God asked him to create a man clean of sin and free of fault, he would’ve created Percival Graves just as he was. Every hair in his head, every inch of his skin, even the inflections of his voice, seemed custom-made for Credence.

In the darkness, they’d share glances. Percival’s eyes would glimmer and Credence would see them smile somehow, showering him with fondness he did not deserve. To contradict him further, Percival’s arm would curl around his middle and hold him closer, and they wouldn’t talk, but that would be fine too.

The brevity of their time together stretched infinitely in a lambent scope. From the pit of scarcity, they retrieved naïve demonstrations of affection and comfort, that could very well be deemed as camaraderie by any onlooker.

A thousand and one ways existed for one person to care for another without disgracing the holy scriptures, yet Credence wondered how emotions that so naturally ran in one’s blood and made one’s heart swell so big could be wrong. The line between virtue and sin became blurry, and at times, faint, as if erasing and redrawing itself, thicker or slimmer there were he saw fit.

Could Percival be the one every puritan in Salem was scared of? Was he the devil that infested the woods and guided maid’s hands to write bloody in his book? Once a plausibility, it now lay buried deep in shame, for he knew Percival was a good man, and by night the only person he guided was Credence into his arms.

And so Credence’s prayers started to begin by thanking the Lord for putting the kind man in his life, and ended with him asking for Percival never to part from his side, as selfish as the plea was.

Oft times he wondered how the man was so exceedingly good at everything he did, yet could be vastly perplexed at simpler things. The first time Credence saw him shave the man had talked on and on, as if waiting for Credence to leave, but he had stayed, wanting to see the long line of his neck stretch as the lustered edge of the blade caressed his cheek and pulled at the stubble. The razor seemed outlandish in his hand, but the man had managed, and after a curse or two he was clean-shaven. A furious blush had made a fool out of Credence, but Percival only smiled.

From that day on, watching Percival shave had become one of his favorite things to do, though he rarely indulged in it, since he knew it was neither appropriate nor adequate to gawk at another man while he did something so private. Besides, Percival gave him little to no opportunity, being finished in less time than was humanly possible. And it wasn’t only shaving, he noticed. Percival was an impossibly fast cook, only Credence’s presence seemed to slow him down. He also possessed unbelievable swiftness of foot, and Credence would always lose sight of him shortly after he’d departed.

It was little after midday when Credence entered the washing room, and stopped dead in his tracks by what he saw. Percival sat before the molded mirror reading an odd newspaper while the razor hovered in midair, stroking the sides of his face in quick, methodical motions.

“You’re a witch.”

His voice startled the man who turned his head, the edge of the knife slicing the skin and bringing blood to the surface, streams of crimson liquid trickling down his face. “Damn, Credence!” He stood up and stared at the mirror, evaluating the damage. It wasn’t a deep cut, but it bled plentifully nonetheless. He glanced at Credence with ire igniting the darkness of his eyes, until he felt ashamed and much too young, head bowed down to the floor.

“I am not a witch,” said the man calmly, even having being caught doing something preternatural, something that defied the natural order imposed by God, “Men are called wizards.”

Although his voice was mellow, it was also condescending.

Credence had been taught from before he could remember that the devil owned the souls of witches, that they were his servants and nothing good could come from them, so it shocked him to be staring at a self-proclaimed witch --or wizard--, and feel something else besides horror, something that replaced repulsion.

Percival walked towards him and tilted his chin up, his gaze was downy and tender. No creature of hell could stare at him with such caring rawness.

“It’s alright, Credence. Magic is not the evil beast they told you about, doesn’t have to be. I’m just… different,” Percival raised his hand and waved his fingers, as if to show Credence there was no trick or illusion, and then he placed it above the mess of flowing blood without making contact. It was as if time went backwards, rivers of red made their way up and into the wound, and the gash… closed, the skin untarnished and without scar.

Then Percival smiled, but the pearly shine of his teeth only curdled Credence’s blood. In his eyes he saw the eyes of the devil, and his presence augmented God’s absenteeism. The air in his lungs vanished and his feet weighed the same as iron blocks, he was fixed to the floor like the nails that crucified Christ, and he was scared. There was a loud thrumming in his ears, and the objects in the room blurred around the edges. He was drowning in a lake of brimstone and fire, and from the heights of heaven he heard jumbled voices calling out his name, most of them condemning him. The Lord’s prayer was thick in his tongue and foggy in his brain, and clamminess had covered his skin along with a trembling cold that invaded even the beds of his nails. Pulse accelerated, time surpassed him, and he was falling and tumbling, shattering like splinters of timber under the ax, breaking.

He needed air. He needed God.

The last he saw of Percival was the man staring back at him, hurt and disbelief clear in his face. He wasn’t to be trusted though, a witch or a wizard, was Satan’s ever-loving devotee, and Credence wanted nothing to do with it. He ran amongst the sea of trees, and he kept running.

 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys i apologize for the incredible delay, first i wasn't feeling it, and then i spent way too much time editing  
> feedback always helps, i also need validation T.T  
> again, sorry and thank you for reading my story!  
>  **edit**  
>  i forgot to add[ this ](http://www.slate.com/blogs/the_vault/2013/09/13/puritan_names_lists_of_bizarre_religious_nomenclature_used_by_puritans.html), laugh with me at how puritans weren't shy when in came to naming their children, YIKES!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be a long ride, folks. put on some music and bring some snacks<3  
> p.s. my heart is pounding so fast right now, I'm nervous as hell!

 

 

_If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to purify us from all unrighteousness._

 

Atonement was a prospect buried beneath the loams of hell. Credence had all but written his name in blood, given himself to the man in soul if not in body, though that had crossed his mind too. How wicked and perverse was he to ignore the word of the Lord, to cast aside all teachings imparted to him since before his memory had switched to life? For two entire moon cycles he had slept with an advocate of Satan, lain with him under cover of blue, and listened to the quiet, calming beating of his wretched heart. For weeks, his world had revolved around a creature that was neither divine nor gracious. He had broken fast everyday with an impostor, a man who’d had little qualms about altering his own name under the pretext of working a dangerous job.

He should have suspected then, that something was amiss. That a thing of darkness resided in Percival’s soul. No son of God would go out of his way in Credence’s aid, not without asking something in exchange, for true Christians knew their poor worth and their sinful nature, and were not without fault of selfishness and own interest.

If anyone was to blame, it was himself. He had let the devil guide him into his burrow, he had covered his eyes with soot and gullibility, closed his ears to all demonic whispers. He worshipped Percival like a false idol, had fallen to his feet, willing to wash the uncleanliness away with his own tears, just as the sinful woman did with Jesus. It said a lot about him, that he had walked into the man’s trap and, stupefied, had cherish him with greater affection than he’d felt for anyone else in the short span of his life.

Blinded by disgust and horror, he had no direction to run to, being carried by his feet by mere intuition of the mind, lost amidst a neck of the woods he knew little of, but he did not care, for there was no place for him to go anyway. The last refuge for his soul had been that little cottage, alongside Percival.

Percival, a man of deceitful face and name. A man who seemed kind at first, but was the devil incarnate, who had seduced Credence with sweet words and sweeter meals. The boy felt repulsion tickling his uvula, and had to lean on the rough bark of a tree to retch, and catch his breath. The sun shone bright, and the wind sang as it did every noon, drifting fallen leaves, and stirring the minds of the sinful with its pure whistle. Although Credence’s world had descended into an unforgiving void of fright and compunction, a lake of sulfuric perdition, the forest remained unperturbed. Serene, unseeing of all turmoil unraveling in its belly. God’s design did not transmute because a lamb strayed from the herd. A single sinner was not enough to make heavenly wrath rain down on Earth, and even though there was a sense of relief in it, Credence felt also hurt, for his life seemed of little importance to the God he worshipped.

Fatigued after running until his legs were brittle and his stomach heaved and his head felt dizzy, Credence slumped down and gathered both knees to his chest.

“Forgive me Lord, for my sinful nature. For being born a wicked creature, for trusting that man and forgetting your wisdoms,” repenting would serve him naught, he knew. There was no fixing the error of his ways.

He stayed there, sobbing between prayers, expecting to see Percival, raising his head from prostration each time a noise creaked, and loathing his guts each time because of it. He had poisoned his spirit and his conscience by letting the man in.

Clad in garments that weren’t his own, Credence wrapped himself tighter, and hummed a melody, that humdrum tune puritan mothers taught their children to help them learn the alphabet faster. The words, familiar and reassuring, a welcoming haven in the middle of nowhere where he could squirrel away and let go of all wrong, cast aside his sins, and drift in a purgatorial haze for however long his body permitted.  

When he opened his eyes the air had turned colder, and gloomy shades populated the thin segments of sky that were visible in the thickness of the darkened foliage. His stomach growled, and Credence realized how accustomed the organ had become to receiving its fair share of nourishment every day in the couple of months he’d lived with Percival. He couldn’t help wondering about the man then: if he was in the cottage reading by the light of the oil lamp, or writing devotedly in his journal as he did every evening; perhaps he’d gone into the Village. A silver lining within him conveyed a greatly distressed Percival looking for him in the many rifts of the forest, worried out of his wits, aching for Credence to come home.

To seek the farce that was the Percival’s warmth was a sin of its own, but it was all the comfort he could offer himself. He had nowhere else to go, no friendly face to turn to for dear assistance; he was as alone as he’d ever been. He dwelled on reproachable musings then, thoughts of Percival caring for him and vice versa, and the more he imagined, the more he felt the seams of his self being ripped up.

“You’re most welcome to lodge with me for however long you wish, dear boy,” Percival had said what seemed like a lifetime ago, and Credence had garnered the words in disbelief, tucked them in the folds of his heart for safekeeping.

What a foolish, naïve boy he had been. How foolish he still was to think of little else but Percival in this direst hour, think of his elegant hand fitting the small of his back, the brush of his creased knuckles along his crimsoning cheek. How tenderly he’d looked at Credence at the break of every morrow, how husky his voice when he whispered his greeting from behind heavy eyes, letting Credence bask in the closeness of their flushed bodies.

Mary Lou and Bartholomew and all the other locals had been right when they proclaimed the devil was chivalrous and of striking beauty. The Father himself, Credence reminisced, had counted Lucifer among his most beloved angels before falling from grace.

Yet for all the writing Percival did on his records and letters, he never once asked Credence to write anything, and, as a witch, that would’ve been his first and foremost goal: to secure Credence’s soul for the Dark One, to have his muddy blood traced neatly over parchment of white. But he hadn’t. Either he was too careless or incredibly astute, with a more elaborate scheme to reclaim Credence’s soul in the long run. Whatever the reason, it mattered not. It all came down to the betrayal, the lies and manipulation of the truth, why had he hidden from Credence? Had malignity consumed the last vestiges of whoever Percival Graves had once been?

A sentiment akin to pity seeped inside his brain, and in the eventide, he beheld the tips of his fingers horrified, for the same awful smoky blackness appeared to flow from them, in fact, the smoke emanated from his entire body, like a macabre aureole. A sudden saltiness at the commissure of his lips alerted him of the string of tears that ran grotesquely down his face, yet as much as he tried wiping them off, the more his eyes grieved. If Percival could see him, but no--

“Stop!” Credence shouted, the word echoed and sent a cawing bird flying off its branch, “Stop, stop, stop!”

His body, unruly and perverse as his soul, payed his commands no heed, and a splitting pain hit him right then, nearly disjointing him. Clear as blessed water, he could see the darkness struggling to escape his flesh, to mercilessly butcher the scraps that were left of him. He attempted many a time to plead God for help, but he was unable to; the excruciating hurt voided his brain of the capacity to even beg.

Abruptly he felt the damp soil against his face. It was damp and soft as his limbs thrashed frantically, teeth grinding, and mind breaking in half. His frame convulsed, but he couldn’t let go; a part of him, that scarce goodness within his pith, hauled the darkness to avert it from overriding his senses as it had done so many nights before, but it would not hold much longer. Credence simply wasn’t strong enough. He whimpered and shook violently, cold sweat dousing his forehead. Sight failed him, and all he could see were indistinctive lumps, differently-colored shapes that could very well belong to Satan’s realm.

Mantled by his searing delirium, Credence imagined strong hands keeping him steady, and the very faint stubble of a cheek grazing his own, “Forgive me, my boy,” declared a familiar voice that dressed him in cloth of solace, “Forgive me,” the voice repeated. His hands stretched out in pursuit of Percival; the man would forgive _him_ , Credence knew, he was much too kind regardless of being a witch. His slightly chapped lips would purge Credence from the turpitude that had sullied his core like poison hemlock, slowly tugging him into an early tomb. He could almost feel the tepid beating of Percival’s heart.

The tremors relented, and the pain subdued. The ruggedness of his breathing fought to find respite, yet his mind persisted in a state of mistiness. “You’re safe, Credence. I shall keep you safe,” said Percival from an unseen place, as the black threadlike steams receded into his pores.

A clamorous treading sound, like that of many footsteps, reached him shortly. A twig snapped. Lungfuls of dense air burned his nostrils on their way in. His heart galloped at full throttle.

“Lo and behold, brothers of mine,” Bartholomew’s guttural voice thundered in the dimness, he was accompanied by a pack of sinister-looking Scourers, “The devil take ye! I knew ye had sold yourself to the Evil One the minute you left, boy. Always meek, always a craven... For long years ye shamed _my_ house with your immoral deviance, but now –Now, the Lord has exposed your sins, and ye shall account for each of them before the justices and the ministers and the villagers. And I _pray_ ye be found guilty, ye filthy demon!”

Fighting would be of no use, Credence thought. He was largely outnumbered, but even if it’d been only him and Bartholomew, his wearied muscles wouldn’t stand a chance.

They tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him across the woods. Eventually, a dry thump at the back of the head knocked him senseless.

 

 

The arms of fear were strong, and their reach was vast. Percival had committed the mistake of underestimating what terror bred from hatred could do, and so, Credence, that charming and pure boy he’d taken under his wing, had ran off into the forest with the gears of his brain still stunned. Greater fool he’d prove to be by believing Credence needed only time to rearrange his views. However, once late noon had comfortably settled, Percival knew letting the boy go had been a rather poor, callow choice.

For hours and hours, he searched for Credence, through thickets and trees, by streams and lakes, apparating at the heels and tops of mountains and peaks, with a heart clenched tight lest it broke his chest and ran off too.

But by the time no light but that of the moon and the stars shone in the sky, Percival reconciled with the idea that Credence was gone. Perhaps the mere thought of breathing the same air as a wizard had weighed too heavily on him. Maybe his heart had pulled him back to wherever he came from.

As he returned to the cottage that now seemed lifeless and uninviting, Percival realized how little he knew about Credence’s past. Apart from his name and the bits he’d collected from idle chatters in bed and in the kitchen, the boy was a stranger to him. Yet a stranger who had imprinted the shape of his body on the bed they’d come to share every night, a stranger who gave the whole Salem ordeal some sense of purpose, a stranger Percival longed ardently to see at the end of every draining day, a stranger he deeply cared for.

Perhaps he knew not who Credence had been prior to finding him by the foot of the elm tree that far night ago, but in the short space of weeks the boy managed to transform the dreariness of Percival’s days, gifted him with a warm spark. His heart, before only an efficient mechanical body part, had been thawed and ignited by grace of tender kindness, and such a heart, so vulnerable and raw, was unpredictable, it beat like a feral wild beast, it stomped enraged, and howled as if wounded by flaming arrow.

That night, after many fruitless attempts of writing a letter, Percival lay on a bed of stone that stretched for miles. He could only toss and turn for so long. It wasn’t insomnia that pulled away his sleep, it was Credence, or rather, Credence’s absence. How was it that a bearer of the Graves’ name had let a stranger in so easily, made himself vulnerable in his haste to help a seemingly hapless soul? Were Gondulphus to suspect anything of the affair, disappointment would impregnate his eyes.

The sounds of the night resonated loudly, Percival could’ve heard the drop of a pine needle, even his own blood he heard thrumming inside the tubes of veins and arteries. Though his sight was weary, closing his eyelids only shunned away darkened figures, but his mind remained just as awake, and conundrums bloomed one after the other, weaving an infinite web of possibilities, of regrets and what ifs.

Being a strong supporter of honesty, Percival pondered if he’d acted right by coming clean. Somehow he was certain honeying the facts wouldn’t have enticed Credence into staying with him. The boy’s convictions were firm, almost set in stone. Whatever the teachings he’d been taught since infancy, they had taken deep root in his soul, and, to his eyes, Percival was not only a witch but a liar too. And that hurt the most, that he was thought of as a liar, someone capable of throwing Credence’s trust to the wind.

Thin rays of light spilled onto the dark wood floors.

Days ago, at this time, he would be rousing from sound sleep, warmed by the blanket formed by Credence’s sleeping figure, his head tucked in the hollow of Percival’s neck, arms clasped around his middle as if he never wished to let go.

Exhaling a sigh filled with the tiredness of both his mind and body, Percival threw off the covers and braced himself for a brand-new day he felt unprepared to live. Bread turned into tasteless mush in his mouth, coffee scraped rather than trickle down his throat. Even the animals seemed quieter, and the usual morning breeze hid in caves and hollow trunks and rock undersides.

Had Credence been by his side, a placid talk would fill in the silence, his modulated voice inadvertently giving shape to the torrid mess Percival was. He’d be sitting in the chair opposite his, looking at him from under fans of thick black lashes, stirring within Percival a feeling he thought forgotten in days of nursery rhymes and childish fragility.

The white cup decorated in blue shattered as it landed against the wall.

“Damn it, Credence!” He heard himself yell, long after the words had left his mouth.

Nevertheless, there was little he could to remedy his hurt other than dust off a bottle of brandy. That the sun had just risen did not matter.

Midday rolled in and found Percival still seating by the table, having downed the amber liquid, head pounding like an axe falling on a stump. That day he did not make it to the Village, and neither did the day after that.

On the third day after Credence’s departure, and after a restless but slumbering night, Percival decided the time for grieving had passed. Wherever the boy had gone to, it was clear, he was better off without Percival, and, in some cruel yet fair way, it was a fortunate turn of events. Living with Credence, letting him see Percival for who he was, had not only been foolish but also a serious Secrecy breach, an error that could very well cost him his life; Gondulphus himself would’ve been at the end of the wand that executed the sentence.

And so, Percival didn’t linger on the bed remembering the comforting presence of Credence, nor did he regard the lasting bottles of brandy in the cabinet. Instead, he had two cups of the strongest coffee magic could muster, smiling demurely at the small liberty. After a quick wash, he put on his clothes, and off he went to the Village.

His mission hadn’t gained much more significance in his days of drunk contemplation, but he clung to the hope to right some wrongs before the wheel steered into absolute chaos. If he could do anything to aid his kin, and even no-majs caught in the crossfire, then the oppressed of Salem would find an ally in him, Wizengamot policies be damned.

Less than quarter of an hour later, Percival was alerted new events had taken place in his short absence.

Salem Village had long been a marsh of confusion and filth and injustice in which its inhabitants drowned. One day, its buildings and trees and people would be buried deep beneath the earth, without a single soul to remember them by. Worse, hundreds of stories wouldn’t be told truthfully.

One of those stories was that of the great black cloud, the one all villagers said could kill and maim, and was the breath of Satan knocking at their door. Yet now word was all that evil belonged to a simple boy. After further investigation, invisible to the locals, Percival confirmed his theory.

There was an Obscurus in Salem Village, and apparently, the poor child, a boy, had been caught trying to escape.

A pair of ill-looking women gossiped discreetly about the incident, but their descriptions were so vivid that the gruesome, horrid details must’ve been product of the joint imagination that characterized small towns. One thing was clear though, a questioning session was to be celebrated promptly in the meeting house, that same afternoon. Everyone would go, it seemed. It was anticipated by all as if it were something to be admired or relished; Percival wished he could separate the innocent from the guilty, write it all down and be long gone.

But he had a duty to carry out, and so when his pocket watch approached four in the afternoon, he slipped inside the meeting house along with dozens of other parishioners, ready to witness whatever misdeeds were in store for the luckless child.

Inside, all pews were already packed as were the balconies, those who’d arrived late stood, and waited exasperatedly for the inquisition to begin, like hounds snuffing the air to get a whiff of their kill.

Before the room, three men dressed in black garments sat behind a table. Meanwhile, at the front row of pews, sat a handful of girls who’d been declared by all as the afflicted, the bewitched. They were the first to have suffered the damages of witchcraft, the first ones to have endured torment for the sins of the villagers. Their word, more than often dubious, became law; whatever they said, in the absence of verifiable proof, was believed and taken at heart’s value, same as holy scriptures. No authority could undermine that which he could not experience. Thus, everyone trusted wholeheartedly the girls’ judgements, their fevers and frenzies.

During his weeks in Salem, Percival identified five of his kind, though he wasn’t entirely sure: a middle-aged couple that kept to themselves, an old man by the name of Gomer, a young woman who seemed to enjoy partaking in the communal mischief with sharp tongue, and most notably, one of the afflicted girls, Mercy Lewis. There were many ways in which he could validate his suspicions, but doing so would only bring the limelight to the witch or wizard, and he wasn’t really in a position to offer ample aid, not endorsed by the Council anyway.

Murmurs quieted when a warden emerged from the back door. He was broad of shoulders and belly, a black hat on his head. And at his side, a huddled figure with hair too black and skin fair as milk, radiance washed away. It was no young child, the Obscurus.

It was Credence _._

As if being struck by thunderbolt, like being thrown into a lake of scalding water. Percival focused on the boy who’d been _his_ mere days before. He still wore Percival’s clothes, but they were besmirched and wrinkled. From afar, he resembled more than ever a wounded creature, yet he retained that angelic delicacy Percival had first seen when he found him asleep in the forest, the same exquisite and rare softness that glowed every morning wrapped in Percival’s arms.

Percival evoked the three never-ending, solitary nights in which his mind had walked down avenues of a time shared with Credence, a past he did not want to let go - could not let go, especially now that his boy was hauled and ogled as if he were a ghastly beast and not a blameless, sweet-tempered young man.

The initial obfuscation bled into uneasiness, and as the unintelligible hum of the crowd discerned once into clearer voices and words, that same uneasiness clad itself in armor of rage. Most presents had already decided Credence was an evil-doer, leaping to the certain conclusion of giving him a swift lethal sentence.

Percival gritted his teeth and took deeper breaths, inching closer to the front of the building where the court was being held. He prayed to no god that Credence could somehow sense his presence, that he could know not everyone wished to see him hanging at the end of a noose.

Holding on to blind fury was easy, hence that was all Percival could do: breathe in the anger he could not manifest lest he caused havoc. He was mad at the mob for being so insensible, mad at the three men for pompously partaking in the charade, mad at the girls on the front pew for spewing lies that had snowballed into this most detrimental situation, and mad at Gondulphus for sending him on the wretched task in the first place, he was even mad at Credence for leaving him, and, in consequence, endangering his own survival. Most of all though, Percival was mad at himself, for not running immediately after Credence that day, for not apologizing for his massive mistake, for not telling him the truth from the start, for not doing enough, not saying enough.

Nonetheless the emotional clouding of rationality was a skill he’d learned to master over the course of the years, and if ever a time came when it was of crucial importance, then that time had materialized thusly: a full-packed meeting house, three interrogators and his boy, who seemed ready to fall if the gentlest of winds blew on his face.

Up there near the pulpit, with his head cast down, Credence was a skein of twitching nerves, with hair matted and grimy, face blotchy from days and nights spent crying and despairing, Percival assumed.

The man in the middle, a short cross-eyed man cleared his throat, his name was William Sergeant, the overseer of inquisitions, he was the bluntest and crudest of all three, his methods were primitive at best and, on most occasions, he left without secure confessions.

In the disheartened gist of events, this man was Credence’s safest bet, though there was no doubt the final judgement had long been passed.

“For the record, is your name not Credence Miller, boy?”

“It is, sir,” answered Credence, eyes skittering nervously.

“You stand here owing to the fact that you were apprehended in the woods by Bartholomew Barebone, the man who raised you, under suspicion of witchcraft. He, and his colleagues, honorable men, all agree that you are a servant to the devil, that you ungrudgingly conspired, and schemed along the Dark One to undermine and threaten the lives of the good people of Salem, is that not true as well?”

“I did nothing—“

“A simple ‘yes’ will suffice, young man.”

“But I didn’t—“

“You did not what? Are you denying being caught red handed? Are you calling these good men, who do nothing but defend our people from the clutches of evil, _liars_?”

“Please, please! I am not a witch!” Credence shrieked, eyes wild and afraid, he seemed to be holding on to a too thin thread, staring fixedly at a small girl with mouse-like features and flaxen hair.

A scream, loud and acute, followed by a chorus of others shrieks; some girls on the front row clawed at their bellies or chests while others yanked their manes, flailing in their seats.

“Lies!” shouted the magistrate pointing at the afflicted. The he spoke to the mass as if wanting to incense them further, “See, brothers and sisters? See how this loathsome boy, this worshipper of Satan, tortures these poor girls? He can deny it, but we’ve all seen how they shrieked in pain when he refused his master by lying in our faces.”

Credence was looking at the swarm of faces, gaze leaping unsteadily from one side of the room to the other, he appeared a lost young child, and Percival realized, dejected, that was all Credence was: lost.

He fumed as the interrogation, that resembled more a medieval witch-hunt, proceeded. Sergeant’s intent wasn’t that of extracting Credence’s side of the story, he cared little for what the boy had to say in defense of himself, and instead, only sought a guilty confession, pressing forward, putting words Credence had never uttered in his mouth, cheering the public to blame him of a crime, a sin, that only Bartholomew and his men could attest for, exalting the afflicted girls into renewed fits of madness.

“Do you confess then, to covenanting with the devil?”

“I—“

“What did you trade your soul for, boy? Riches and gold, love, protection, what?”

With contrite face, Credence replied, “I never—God is my only sav—“

“How dare he speak the name of our Lord!” exclaimed a disembodied voice. Jeers and heckles followed suit, all slamming against Credence. In their eyes, the boy was the foulest of offenders. Percival wished he could burn the whole village to the ground.

It was evident the interrogation would not end up well. Moreover, paralleled to others he’d witnessed, no one wanted as fiercely for the accused to be hanged.

Clamors asked for the boy’s life, for his head, for there to be an end to the streak of ill luck they’d been suffering. Were it up to the villagers they’d hang children if it meant healthier, more abundant crops.

The afflicted had kept mostly quiet by that time. Percival saw most of them had glassy, red-rimmed eyes, and their skin lacked the glow of health. They seemed lost to their present, as if their mind had wandered after the first fits, as if they weren’t paying attention to the strafing of that who, supposedly, caused them harm and disease. In any given case, a victim wouldn’t be so unaffected and detached by the words of their aggressor, for therein dangled their hopes for justice. So, it was strange of them to not even flinch throughout the questioning, but still combust into nonsensical fits whenever doubts sprouted, as if to accommodate the puzzle pieces against Credence.

And then the questions veered down a path Percival found interesting, the one in which the words declared by the interrogator rang with more than an ounce of truth, “Witnesses say black smoke emanated from your body, like tendrils of evil darkness… Lord have mercy upon us!” he cried out intensely, “Brothers, this is the devil’s new plot, his newest trick to tempt us into fear and sin, but we shall endure in the Holy Spirit. We shall not be cowered by this _creature_ , this pawn of evil! We have seen you, Credence Miller. We have seen your body transformed into the cloud of smoke and ash, prowling the skies, the wind… You mutilated and killed our cattle, most likely than not brought our crops to rot too. Do you deny any of these imputations? Will you continue this sham? Speak now, the truth! Confess!”

But Credence merely raised his shoulders, they trembled. He was under great strain; it was a miracle the Obscurus hadn’t taken over.

Percival’s heart ached deeply for the boy, his sweet boy, subjected to the unfairest of humiliations. Credence seemed impossibly small there where he stood, with all scornful eyes cast on him, boring him into the ground, and condemning him with ubiquitous contempt.

The other two magistrates observed keenly the development of the session, while one appeared taken by Sergeant’s every word, committing them to memory for later perusal, the other had the look of one who believes he can do a more graceful and effective job than the one that’s being done, his upturned nose and narrow eyes conceited him airs of superiority above the humbler laics before him. The latter was the individual Percival mistrusted most, not because he was an arrogant, power-hungry man, but because he didn’t serve any means of justice. He was the man behind easy confessions, the one with a tongue sweet and sharp enough to drive even the most innocent into admitting to crimes and sins they hadn’t committed. He liked most to see them hang.

“Respond to the servants of Lord, boy!”

Copious tears ran down Credence’s cheeks, and drooped at the edge of his jaw. He was hunched up, and wet snot trickled from his nose. He looked every year as young as he was, only sixteen and already facing such miseries. Yet… sixteen years harboring an Obscurus shifted the outlook entirely.

“Did you or did you not, perform all these atrocious, blasphemous deeds?” Sergeant pressed on.

“Please!” Credence begged. Percival feared he was about to get on his knees, but the movement seemed only the inability of his weakened legs to support him properly.

Almost three hours had transpired since the inquisition began, the inside of the meeting house was now opaque and the temperature had dropped by ten. Credence, dressed in nothing but one of Percival’s plain shirts, shivered, trying to tone down the intensity of his sobbing.

Having failed in his endeavor to wring out a vibrant confession, Sergeant called the session to an end and with a last prayer, encouraged the villagers to use the gift of understanding to better themselves in the light of the Lord, and to never forgo the vicious consequences siding with the devil could bring about. His parting words he reserved to make an example out of Credence, signaling him as the major culprit of Salem’s misgivings and distresses, urging the members to stare at him as if he were a mirror, to avoid falling into sin.

Tugged by a rope, as if he were a common beast, Credence was ushered through the backdoor as people began to fill out, if not entirely appeased but contented with the public humiliation.

The only soul, apart from Percival, who seemed aggrieved by the scandal was the young girl with straw hair and skin just as sallow Credence had stared at so vehemently. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She was held by the arm of an older girl, breakable features composing her face. Both trailed behind the Barebone matrimony, the mother admonishing the youngest in cutting whispers.

“Hush now, Modesty! Do not weep for the wicked.”

He followed them on their way out, mind still clouded by the sudden events.

The man walking with them, Bartholomew, Percival knew well enough, though, in his mind, not an inkling had bound the fearsome Scourer to Credence. The boy had deceived Percival just as Percival had deceived him. From the blurriness of his past to the Obscurus that devoured his insides with voracity, all had been a lie. The couple of months nothing but an illusion crafted by the necessity of both parties.

Nevertheless, the present circumstances did not abet for long contemplative introspections to explicate what had gone awry or why.

All eyes glared at Credence, accused most severely of practicing witchcraft. After Sergeant’s fanatical speech, rather than interrogation, Credence would be seen as an architect of evil, a master to many witches in Salem. No proof of his innocence could wash him from guilt, not that such a proof would ever exist in the first place.

Percival Graves had raised stations thanks to a cold head and a leashed heart, he was the first man to come to action when catastrophe struck, the one whose mind wasn’t obscured by fear or anger or despair, the one whom men of lesser strength and temper looked up to. Before being sent on the fruitless endeavor to Salem, he’d had under his charge the service of more than a fiftieth of witches and wizards, but as the situation matured for the worse across the lands, more and more of his underlings had been dismissed, some had quit while others were repositioned. After months of struggle and hassle, the Council had left Percival with less than half the original workforce. Gondulphus had swept in like a vulture then, delivering a speech rather than engaging in a discussion with his son. The Graves patriarch paid no attention to Percival’s polite protests, even less to his irate retorts. With a dismissive gesture of the hand and a document containing the minutiae of what he was to do, Percival was deposed from his rank, and sent off to Massachusetts. From the heart of distress up north, he’d journeyed to a place infected by firestorm, and at the very bottom of that hell he’d found Credence.

The boy was evidently a danger beyond being an Obscurial. He was especially dangerous to Percival. He, the level-headed man, reduced to an inner turmoil that disabled him to act according to what was required of him, tempted to do instead what seemed infinitely easier.

Oh, how those wet lashes and crimson-tainted cheeks had the power to break him in half, how he yearned for nothing but running to Credence’s aid, liberate him from the cell those savages surely were keeping him in, and take him back to their little cottage in the woods, nurture him back to health and hold him safe in his arms – kill anyone who dared threaten them. Issues weren’t so easily resolved though, especially in times such as these, when the safety of all wizardkind balanced precariously over a thin line. Consequences of a reckless rescue would resonate for weeks, months, maybe even years to come. It was a hard choice to make, but Percival finally resolved to go back to his cottage, and think of a way out that didn’t involve exploding the prison and all of Salem with it.

After what could’ve been hours of pacing like a bandit between the watchful stark walls that weren’t unlike the Council’s eyes if they knew of his intent, a seed had germinated in Percival’s mind. What would the seed bear him was still unknown to him, but it was the easiest and fastest solution without harming anyone too severely.

In the forefront of his mind, recurrent and impending, the image of his father made its appearance, along with tales of old, tales of his ancestors and how they’d barely managed to escape the deathly hooks of the witch-hunt back in Europe. That fight costed every member of the wizarding community dearly, and the screams of pain and sorrow still mingled with their present, an all-pervading feeling that resided in the hearts of all carriers of magical blood. It ran in his blood too. But that feeling hadn’t bestowed him with fear, but with a thirst for equity, and now he would achieve it by saving Credence without being noticed by the Council.

Salem would perhaps be remembered in history same as Valais, but Credence would not be a part of it, he would not be just another name scribbled in his records. If Percival had any say in it, and he had, for who was there to stop him, Credence would be saved, from the others and from himself.

 

 

The cell was damp and too dark for his eyes to see past his breath. There were others in it, older women as well as young ones, all huddled and trembling, their voices whispers diffusing the silence that, like a reeking mantle, settled over them. More than one prayer could be heard in the distance, broken utterances that reminded Credence why he was here and what terrible things the magistrates were accusing him of, things everyone seemed eager to see him hang for.

But amidst the darkness and the teetering of his teeth, Credence could find no solace in the scriptures or in the loving promise of a far-flung father or in Modesty’s welled eyes as she looked at him with disappointment and fear. If at any given time he’d bowed down to Satan, it had been in the cottage, the day he nestled in the crook of Percival’s neck. If his soul had been purchased in his obliviousness, the buyer was none other than Percival Graves. And how wicked was it that Credence felt comforted by this? Shivering, his thoughts revolved around the dark-haired man, he hugged himself closer, gripping fiercely at the fabric of his shirt, trying to evoke a fragrant scent that had rapidly dissolved, and mixed with the acrid wailings of his inmates. The only shred of hope Credence clung to were those golden days that, in hindsight, appeared excerpts from the most beautiful story ever told. A story in which he wasn’t wicked or deviant, and he was loved, and no darkness inhabited within his soul.

Before the crowd, he had seen too well-known faces that only craved for him to be found guilty of all charge sooner rather than later. The session had been a bountiful dosage of the spiteful Salem. Standing at the front of the room, with all eyes fixed on him, Credence embraced the agonizing fear that instated his neighbors to act without qualms, and wondered, not for the first time, if there wasn’t some truth in all the madness, if they, the villagers, weren’t right to seek justice the only way they knew to protect their own against greater forces.

Almost a week had gone by since he fled the cottage. A week with little rest, his muscles ached and his eyes stung. There was a foul taste in his mouth that would not leave. The last proper meal he’d have was shared with Percival, and just like that, his mind returned to the man, unable to stray too far or too long.

 _Is he worried about me,_ he wondered, _does he know where I am, does his heart care for my wellbeing and safety as I care for his?_

Bitter tears sprouted at the corners of his eyes, their saltiness so familiar to him these days.

“Dear Lord… allow me to find Thy comfort in my torment, permit me to see beyond my shameful grief and sorrow, let me beseech Thy loving embrace, even though I was born unclean and will always be unworthy of Thy grace…” A girl not much older than Credence prayed words that, previously, would’ve softened Credence, and shamed his soul, but in the unadulterated blackness of the cell, the prayer had the face of a hollow deceiver, and it irked him, if only slightly.

The swifter the sentence the better, he thought. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He could be questioned a thousand times, and still the same answers would prevail. He would not grant the Barebones or the rest of the villagers the satisfaction of an untruthful confession, for in doing so he would truly besmirch his soul, and his conscience would rob him of any peacefulness. Besides, no matter his declarations, he would be found guilty, and that he could not deny entirely. A polluted spirit had claimed him, but he had never, of his own accord, given himself over to the devil. They’d have to hang him just like that, he only wished he could see Percival one last time.

Compared to his life-long neighbors, the witch -or wizard- had been nothing but kind to Credence. If he could see him before dying, Credence believed he would forgive his lies, after all, it was probable Percival just wanted to shelter his naïve ears from a harsh truth. Credence would ask for forgiveness too. He’d left too many a thing unsaid, tucked safely beneath the cottony softness of the pillows, coiled at the back of the shelves, behind cups and plates and tins.

A loose end still lingered, but as the night crawled into the first hours of the morrow, it stitched to the rest of the story. Percival had come to Salem to fairly and effectively register and account the disturbing events that were unraveling. However, he was there in no capacity to stop them or tamper with them, if so… had he been there for his audience, invisible to all eyes? The thought made a terrible hurt clench in his chest. These hearings, they were the reason Percival went into town every day and returned home appalled, seeking Credence’s company. To know the wizard had been so close yet so far at the same time tightened his gullet harder than the rope of his certain noose.

The rumble of his guts had become a manageable ache. In Salem prison, only those well-off could afford survival, food as well as water and whatever other simple comforts, were to be bought, the money destined for the Village’s welfare, but straight into the pockets of those higher-ranked. Credence knew this because there were days in which Bartholomew bought articles above their budget, giving feeble if any explanations as to how he’d come by the means of procuring said objects.

But then night passed, and another day broke.

Credence’s stomach growled again. His only rations were the scrapes a girl by the name of Anne left him out of pity or compassion. She was kind, but in all her reclusion she spoke not one word. Her aunt paid for all her meals, and she didn’t endure hunger like most of the other prisoners. She had taken to watch Credence out of the corner of her pale blue eyes.

Credence feared his trial might continue, but hours transpired, agonizingly slow, with the remembrance of Percival overfilling his brain, wondering if he’d see him once more.

There were no distractions to deviate the mind in prison other than anticipation and dread for whatever was to come. Nerves ensconced, lips bitten till they bled, hands wrangling. Minutes happened in a blur, bleeding into centuries while dying before being known. Incarceration was a hole few came out sane of, if they came out at all.

Lilac hues decked the skies, and the lessening of the sunlight that filtered through the barred window, let Credence know late evening had arrived. Yet he had not been called upon, for whichever reason, and he sighed relieved, perhaps glad his death laid farther away, but he didn’t want to raise his hopes because he had close to none. No one would speak in his favor. He himself wasn’t sure of being innocent.

The figures of the three women he shared cells with fell one by one into sleep, and he at last, joined them once his lids were too heavy, and the fatigue had wrung out his bones, and amalgamated them into something akin to iron. The straw was coarse against his skin, but it was preferable to the cold harshness of the stone floors.     

His sleep was light and unrestful, resembling more a slumber after a hard day’s work than the proper lie down at the death of day. His brain produced no thought, no ideas, no coherent string that could keep his mind reeling, and yet… as if from a faraway, sunnier place, came the occasional pattering sound of drops, the tired snores of fellow prisoners, and even the chilly licks of gusts. The night was cold, his skin covered in goosebumps, the bare soles of his feet roughened, a cut stung from time to time. There was a dryness in his mouth, and swallowing was beyond him, instead, only sand touched his palate. How far away were those mornings with coffee and oatmeal and bread and cheese, how distant the hand of Percival ruffling his hair before going off to work, how vulnerable his back without Percival’s chest slotted against it. If he were to die he wished it could be by the man’s side and not with rats and empty-eyed women as witnesses.

His lips were parched same as the sheets of parchment Percival wrote on. Credence too wished to be covered in the ink of his ornate pen, to be gracefully traced by the pulse of his hand. However, there were no lights to illuminate his confinement, no candle flame, no bright moonlight spilling onto the ground. It was so dark he could imagine himself back at the cottage, tackled by nightmares perhaps, but _there_ nonetheless. There with Percival, undisturbed and unperturbed by the clamor of a dying world. Him lying down on their bed, Percival’s steps approaching him with a slight grin curving his lips, the scent of him, ink and smoke and cologne, inundating Credence’s senses, filling him with a vitality that had walked out on him the moment Bartholomew seized him in the forest. It was too dark to see anything at all, but it was quiet enough to hear the echoes of that life rushing back all at once, to smell that sweet temptation just a few steps away, and almost savor Percival’s skin.

“Credence,” it was merely a whisper, but it felt fierce as a whiplash, and it roused him from the hazy sleep he’d been falling into for an eon.

He sat up straight, wiping away phantoms, and blinking until his eyes didn’t stick themselves together again, but just as he thought, there was no sight of Percival. Only that same darkness, all-engulfing, asphyxiating--

“Credence, my boy,” repeated the voice, this time more adamant, tattered at the edges but all the tenderer because of it.

“P-Percival, sir?” he replied, trying to locate the source of his make-believe.

“Forgive me,” one moment there was only darkness, and the next, the shaded outline of Percival Graves was staring at him by the gate of his cell, looking far less polished than usual, the growth of a beard evident on the bottom half of his handsome face. Obscured by the night, it was difficult to scrutinize further, to see if his eyes carried the same sadness and hopelessness Credence knew his own to be filled with.

The man stood there, unflinching, waiting for Credence to say something else, but his mouth had yet to build a bridge with his fuddled mind. Even if a horde of thoughts stampeded his brain, the space between his ears remained a blank canvas.

What his lips could not speak his legs made up by trembling as he picked his weakened frame from the ground and stumbled forward, colliding against Percival’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck, that warm space he’d craved as if it were holy sanctification. His body, though lacking hydration, managed to well his eyes causing fat tears to fall on the white linen of Percival’s shirt. Percival, the kind man, the courteous, compassionate wizard who was cradling the back of his head while rubbing soothing circles on his back with his other hand, muttering in his ear words he was too distraught to comprehend.

Credence sobbed because he could not do anything else, because doing anything else was pointless, and his heart had decided to pour all its fears and worries and hurts on Percival. He cried because he had ruined everything, had abandoned Percival, and still the man had returned to save him a second time when he shouldn’t even had saved him a first one. He cried for Percival, who had broken into the prison, and was holding him while he wept like the broken thing he was, assuring him everything would turn out just fine.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he promised.

He had imagined those same words moments before being apprehended, but it was different this time, for Percival’s mouth spoke the words, and Percival didn’t speak in vain.

“Do you trust me, Credence?” he asked, after Credence’s breathing was no longer that of a frightened deer, and his chin was tilted, allowing him to stare right back into the black pools that were Percival’s eyes.

“I do, sir. I promise I do.”

“Hold on tight then, my boy,” Percival smiled, and squeezed the grip on his hand.

The axis of the world shifted beneath his feet, his empty stomach flipped and dropped, and the insides of his head seemed to rattle from side to side. Just when he thought he’d vomit all over Percival, firm ground greeted his feet, and steady disorientation tugged at him like a rider pulling the horse reins.

It took him a while to come back to his senses, but when he did Percival was there to sustain him, so close he could breathe him all in, and keep him within his lungs.

“Are you alright, Credence?”

Both knew that was a question with no simple answer, too many pitfalls and traps lay behind it. The wound was still crude, the sentiments far from healed, but as things were, Credence was the best he _could_ be, thus, he nodded and dared hold Percival a little longer under the pretext of not yet trusting his feet.

“Come. You should rest now. We can talk come morning. There’s no rush, my boy,” half-carried by Percival to the bedroom, he was swiftly changed into clean clothes, and laid most caringly upon the fleecy bed. His whole body seemed to whirr with every breath, and his lids turned to lead once more. Before losing consciousness, a cup was pressed to his lips, and fresh water trickled down his throat, drenching his shriveled insides, and washing away some of the dryness of his lips, though they still felt flakey.

He fell asleep underneath warm blue covers, a fluffy pillow under his heavy head, and the comforting weight of Percival by his side.

When he woke, light had recouped strength, filling all corners of the room with its yellowy warmth. However, no he was alone, and, for a moment, the idea of being back in prison seized his heart, but this was real. He really was back in the cottage, rousing on the bed he shared with Percival, smelling the wood and the fire in the chimney, and that obstinate Percival scent that clung to the fabrics he was cocooned in. The gentle clattering of dishware beckoned him like the chirp of a lark. A constant yet dull thrum buzzed in his brain, but more sharp was the sullen jab at the top of his stomach. He recognized it as plain hunger, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time. 

In the kitchen Percival stood at the table slicing a loaf of bread. A banquet of savory and sweet was splayed over the wooden surface, earthy colored edibles, and even a colorful fan of varied fruits. Spoons stirred cups on their own.

Days ago, he would’ve bolted out frighten to death by the sight. This morning his heart skipped a bit, but entertained the mechanics of such magic.

“Good morning,” Credence’s voice was raspy, either from the lack of use or the days spent without water.

Percival looked up, a radiant smile plastered on his face. Almost at the same time resounded a clumsy clatter of spoons as they stopped brusquely, clinking loudly against the ceramic. In their haste to act normal a puddle of coffee had spilled over the wood.

“Fuck. Uh, I’m sorry. I apologize for my obvious… this,” he gestured at the mess, a blush coloring the high points of his cheeks. Despite the dark circles under his eyes, Percival was striking as ever, younger looking somehow.

In return, Credence couldn’t help but succumb to awkwardness as well, rosiness peppering the bridge of his nose. To add to his humiliation, his stomach grumbled anxiously, a gurgling sound Percival must’ve heard all too clearly, for he pulled out a chair and signaled for him to sit down. Ever the obedient servant, he complied without second-guessing. 

Despite the painful familiarity of the setting, Credence felt no different from an intruder, or rather a guest who needed to be steered in order not to offend his host with poor peasant manners. His back ramrod-straight, his gaze flickering, unable to stay put and stare at Percival for longer than a handful of seconds.

“Eat, please. You must be starving,” Percival’s eyes were soft, but his jaw was set in the way that meant he wouldn’t take no for an answer, the same countenance he adopted when he was frustrated.

Credence took a mouthful of sweetened porridge, then another and another more after that one. Living with Percival had rapidly accustomed him to a life in which meals were mandatory and his belly never complained.

The warm oats sat heavily inside, and he couldn’t eat much more after. Forgotten was the buttered bread and cuts of ham; still he gobbled five strawberries, they were rich in color and richer yet in flavor.

All the while he felt Percival’s eyes weighing on him, but he allowed the silence between them to simmer throughout the course of the meal. The knot in his throat would constrict him were he to speak too soon, would break on him, and his control would break in consequence. Percival had done enough consoling the night before. Now Credence had to be strong, after all, it was his fault they were here in the first place.

“Credence?”

Percival’s plate was untouched: bread, eggs, sausage and berries ignored. Clasped by the handle, his cup was nearly out of coffee after being nursed for about fifteen minutes.

Then Percival reached out to him, placing his hand over Credence’s, giving it a gentle squeeze. He continued, “Have I acted right, my boy, bringing you here? I value your safety above anything else, but I haven’t forgotten the terms we… ended on.”

Credence looked at him. Though he did not speak, he hoped his eyes were eloquent enough to transmit his feel on the matter, warm enough to burn away the space that had grown between them. He squeezed Percival’s hand.

“I should have asked your forgiveness that day, Credence. I should have been honest from the start instead of planting lies. I… I am not used to this, apologizing, --but what I mean to say, is… I am sorry, truly. For my deceit, for not running after you, for letting you be thrown into a cold cell. I am sorry for not seeing what should’ve been obvious, for being blind to your suffering, and the toll it was taking on you,” his voice was thick with emotion, but the words did not waver.

The lump in Credence’s throat bobbed, and he anticipated another frisson of tears.

“I am sorry, my boy,” reiterated Percival, the apology knitted not only in his words, but also the disarrayed state of his hair, the sunken stare, the hesitant touch of his hand, as if he wasn’t sure it was well-received.

“I am-“ started Credence, but he had to swallow around nothing, gather his thoughts and try again, “I’m sorry too, sir Percival. I – I should have been more understanding. You’ve been so kind to me, kinder than anyone I’ve ever met, and I broke everything… I wasn’t honest with you either, I lied and now... Now they want to hang me for it. And you --You saved me, _again,_ ” emotions tackled him, and his vision blurred.

“Listen to me, Credence. You have done nothing wrong or evil. You are a sweet, kind, caring, wonderful young man. Merlin, only goodness lives within you, my boy! You are not what they say, you hear me?”

“I…,” he thought of contradicting him, but Percival was stubborn, and Credence didn’t feel like initiating a fight so soon after reuniting with him, “Yes.”

“Good,” he took another sip of his cup, gaze never abandoning Credence.

Credence wished they could get past the whole affair, to go back to the bedroom, curl in the bed and let the world pass them by, ignoring all the troubles that were keeping them apart.

“Credence, dear boy… I am not here to judge you; nor would that ever be my intent. If it is within my power, I will help you. I will listen and understand, and I’ll keep you safe from anyone or anything that tries to hurt you.”

“How did you… how did you find me?”

“It wasn’t of much difficulty seeing as your interrogation has been perhaps the most well-attended. I must say though, the locals were grotesquely excited to see you condemned,” his lips pursed in displeasure, “Not even your family showed mercy.”

“They are not – Not my real family,” he replied, and just saying it out loud felt like dropping a weight off his shoulders, “They took me in when I was six, after the fire my family died in. Ever since I’ve been living with the Barebones, but they’re not--“

“Not your family. I understand, my boy,” he dallied a bit before continuing, unlike the magistrate his questions didn’t inspire fear in Credence’s heart. It felt only natural to tell him everything, to strip the many layers he’d covered himself with since they met. Unlike Sergeant, Percival didn’t label him a wicked rogue, “Does it hurt?”

The question surprised him. Credence had expected Percival to ask about his deviancy, when it had started, what did it do, was is intentional? But no. Percival’s main concern was if it, the rotten darkness of his soul, inflicted pain upon Credence.

“No, not right now. I -- It feels like fire when I… when _that_ happens, but it goes away, and then I’m not really sure how it feels because I do not remember much after that happens.”

Percival nodded, his mind surely spurring with many ideas. He seemed hesitant to proceed, but after a sharp click of his tongue he spoke, “Credence, I believe -- I am certain you are what we call an Obscurial,” seeing Credence’s visage yet to catch up, he elaborated, “An Obscurial is a witch or a wizard who’s been forced to conceal their magic, to suppress it completely. Most Obscurials are children no older than the age of ten, and there aren’t all that many. Unfortunately, they are easily targeted by no-majs like Bartholomew. Some wizards kill them too to avoid major issues, and the rest… let’s just say magic turned inwards is potentially lethal. I have never heard of an Obscurial living for sixteen years, my boy.”

“Oh,” Credence looked down. His heart beat in dissonance, climbing up to his mouth, ready to be coughed up at any second. Cold sweat pearled his forehead.

One moment he was staring fixedly at the half-finished cup of coffee, hearing a clatter ringing in his ears, and the next, Percival was kneeling at his side, cupping his face.

“Look at me, Credence, please.”

It was difficult to breathe. He had always known there was something inherently wrong with him, Mary Lou reminded him of it every day, but to have Percival acknowledge it as well, to put a name to the dark thing that hid inside his chest, the very thing that would be his demise, was too much to bear.   

Percival repeated himself, his voice beckoned Credence like a fish to the hook, and then he was looking at his weary face, concern written in the strong furrowed brows.

“It’s fine, my boy. We will handle this. I won’t let you get hurt,” _I won’t let you die,_ Credence heard _._

His very essence was vile. Who was there left to care if he surrendered to another sin? He wrapped his arms around Percival, clinging to his shirt, trying to feel the skin it covered, slim fingers digging harshly. And Percival held him back, just as fiercely, as if he were something precious, an invaluable, good soul.

“I won’t lose you, Credence. I can’t lose you.”

 

After that, settling back into their routine was easy, yet some days two steps forward meant three step back. Credence, still shaken by the events, was jumpy at every sound, and never left the cottage. The forest remained unexplored, hut he felt as if he knew every tree in it already. Magic on the other hand, was a newly found discovery, and its many wonders never ceased to astound him, fear and trepidation fading bit by bit. Percival, for his part, spent less time at the Village, or went back to check on him throughout the day.

For a drawn-out period, talk in the Village was fixed on the escape of the dangerous witch Credence Miller, the very one who incited others to stoop down into sin, filling the devil’s black book with names, terrorizing neighbors while attacking their crops and cattle, and causing havoc all along the coast. It was rumored he had covenanted with Satan himself, and not with any of his demonic minions. Nonetheless, the Barebone clan was still held in high regards, what with Bartholomew being a Scourer and Mary Lou an open spokeswoman against many evils, no taint had come to them. On the contrary, many lauded them for having took in the orphan out of the goodness of their Christian hearts, and lamented the wicked turn the boy had taken. They were pitied and praised, the perfect puritan family.

Since the interrogation and trial had obviously been postponed until his recapture, and to appease the worried souls of the locals, Scourers had been out in the woods for weeks searching for him, under order of eliminating him on sight. The fugitive had demonstrated the highest of culpabilities, no deed of redemption was to save Credence.

Meanwhile in the secreted cottage, Credence and Percival relished in their united solitude. Days were almost idle and carefree. Nights however, proved more difficult, even if Percival was there right next to him on the bed. Even if he pressed swift good night kisses on his pale cheek when the candles were put out, or on his nape when he felt anxious and couldn’t sleep.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to keep away from upsetting thoughts.

Lately it felt as if an apology was always falling off the tip of Credence’s tongue, for he _was_ sorry. He was a disaster. He was no child of God, but he was no true child of magic either, like Percival. He felt like the faultiest of creatures.

“Come here.”

Some nights Percival would tell him stories about his life while Credence rested his head atop the wizard’s chest, lost in the gruff voice and the pleasant thumping of his heart, legs tangled in an intimate fashion.

“My grandfather, Tristan Graves, came to the Americas from Ireland, in search of a better life, I suppose. By that time these lands were still very young, and Ilvermorny, the American school of wizardry, was rather small. Since the 1630s and following Hogwarts’ tradition, that is the British school of wizardry, Ilvermorny sends letters to its students when they turn eleven to be properly taught magic control, though it’s not a fool-proof system yet since, unfortunately, many young witches and wizards have passed unnoticed,” Credence was glad to hear sincerity mingled with every word Percival muttered, and though the things he described seemed too far-fetched for him, he cherished them all the same, “However, I started to formally learn it before that age. My father, Gondulphus, was mostly responsible for my early education, wanting me to excel my peers once I was boarded off to school. After graduating, I trained myself in different skills, of course. Granted that’s only expected if one wishes to have a say in the Council, that is our… government,” this last he said chuckling, “See, America is much too vast, and there’s still no consensus as to who holds the bastion.”

“Much like us then?” Credence asked.

“Us?”

“The normal people,” he clarified, poking Percival’s chest.

“Ah, _yes_! Many powers keep meddling in businesses which, sincerely, do not concern them any longer. Wizards aren’t completely distanced from the realities you mention, my boy. We too want political autonomy, yet as you well know, we face other tribulations on top of that. All these persecutions have led to numerous attacks, murders of innocent no-majs by scorned wizards. Sadly, my father informs me the tally has massively increased as of late… Nevertheless, you are wrong, my boy. You are not one of _them_ ,” this he said with a smile on his lips.

“Hmm,” Credence didn’t know what else to say, but these talks weren’t for him to give an elaborate opinion anyway. Percival spoke to soothe him, to keep the monsters at bay.

“The point is – “ Percival said after a while, retaking the source of the conversation, “Yes, wizarding schools do exist. But like no-majs, we are still somewhat tied to the British Empire, consequently, the whole educational system could do with some key improvements, I believe. In fact, even the Council should sort out its priorities, if you ask me,” he cleared his throat, “There are sufficient resources to fund more magical schools and universities, or at the very least stretch Ilvermorny’s budget, but bureaucracy, my boy, is an evil yet to be defeated.”

Oft-times Percival would turn very political, despite wanting to lighten Credence’s spirits with each story. Nonetheless, that was unsurprising. The patriotic vein of young men pulsed heavily, and it mattered not if Percival was a wizard.

“You feel very strongly about this, don’t you?” he asked, smiling up to meet Percival’s gaze.

“I -- _Yes_ , of course I do! Though if you think me impassioned about it, you should meet my father. The man drinks, eats and breathes politics, wizarding and no-maj alike. He can be a little… suffocating.”

Percival broke out in a chortle that seemed to break the taut uneasiness that had coiled within Credence once the sun had dipped in the rosy horizon. His laughter was contagious, therefore Credence found himself echoing the sound, though his own was more subdued, a buzz that bubbled in his belly, and fainted as soon as it crossed his lips.

“I do not think your father would ever want to meet me, Percival.”

“Ah, no. He’s… To be truthful, I doubt he’s much interested in meeting anyone who isn’t a politician. The man is brilliant, an exceptional wizard and an all-round tremendous person, but he _is_ a little hard to approach. In time though, I think he’d like you.”

Were they not enclosed by darkness, Percival would’ve easily seen him blush. Credence shook his head and sighed. Venturing farther down that road would only bring discomfort about. He was not yet certain why Percival allowed this level of intimacy, if either it was normal between wizards, or if he had inclined tendencies as well as Credence. But if it was the latter, then Credence couldn’t think of their conduct, Percival’s conduct, as immoral or shameful. A man like him, so high and mighty, couldn’t do anything wrong.

With Percival’s fingers carding his hair, Credence fell into earnest sleep. Warm and contented, nightmares didn’t pay him a visit.

Apart from endlessly writing on his journals after going to the Village, Percival had taken to poring himself over books Credence had never seen. The seemingly interminable fountain of leather-bound tomes was a mystery to him till one day it was no more.

A currant-colored bag that tied with flimsy strings. A little bag able to fit the entire length of Percival’s arm.

“An extension charm,” Percival declared cheerily, “Most of my books I keep here with me. It’s extremely useful, and as you can see…” he handed the bag to Credence, “weighs same as a feather. Marvelous, wouldn’t you say?”

Credence nodded dumbfounded, and after Percival stretched out his arm in a manner that seemed to say ‘ _be my guest’_ , he dug his arm inside the bag, fascinated by seeing the limb disappear while his fingertips grazed the spine of many a book, “Wonderful,” he whispered under his breath.

“Indeed,” agreed Percival, sporting a self-satisfied smirk, then added “I have been looking for cures, you could say, to extricate the Obscurus.”

Credence shook his head, “You don’t have to, Percival.”

“I know, Credence, I know,” he said, taking both slim hands in his own. Then he tilted his head, and waited for Credence to meet his gaze. Boundless compassion and affection flooded his brown eyes, “I want to help you, my boy. I said I would.”

“But it is not your obligation. You have other, more important, things to do.”

“I’m living with an Obscurial, dear boy…” he said without a hint of malice, “I don’t think myself mistaken when I say you come first. Besides, there’s not much I can do for Salem now. Suspects are interrogated and restrained, yes, but the executions have stopped since you escaped. I believe they fear repercussions will come to them if they so much as hang person more. It’s mayhem, but it’s contained. Not that I am allowed to interfere, even if I wanted to.”

“But you saved me,” Credence said, voice small.

“Yes, I saved _you_. Because you matter too much for me to care about the damn rules,” a vague smile concealing the unintentional grimace, “There are books here I have yet to read completely. Books about simple spells and charms from my Ilvermorny days, books about the history of wizardkind, and other books that focus on the darker aspects of magic. On those there is the sporadic mention of Obscuri, but granted, no author has written an in-depth handbook on how to control or banish one.”

Credence gasped, “Banish? Would that be possible?”

“Well…” Answered Percival, scratching the back of his head, “Few authors have mentioned it. Theoretically speaking it is doable, though I’m not sure what the ritual would entail. Seeing as there are no official records, and is only talked about as a thing from legend, I assume it requires older magic, the type of magic medieval witches and wizards vowed to abandon.”

Credence ignored old magic even existed, it was all a novelty to him, “Why?”

“It employs our very basic nature and magical core. To directly interfere with it is a risky endeavor that could easily end up in the death of whomever is practicing it. Sangromancy, necromancy, bone magic, all seven of the forbidden arts, practices that would make the pelage of Sphinx stand on edge.”

Credence played with the hem of his sleeve, a loose thread bothering him, or perhaps it was easier to fix his attention on the string rather than look at Percival, “Would it be possible to expel it though, even if it were through such… magic?”

Percival never gave Credence false hopes, never promised something he could not deliver. Not that he’d be home early, not that he would erase the minds of the townspeople. He did promise not to desert Credence once his task had come to completion. And despite the last one was yet to be confirmed, Credence’s faith that he’d keep his word didn’t waver.

“In theory, yes,” seeing as this answer was not satisfactory enough for Credence, Percival added, “If research goes well, and I find any hint of anything that could work, we shall try, though I can’t make any promises, my boy.”

It was plenty of a hope for Credence, “I’d like to try then, once you find more information.”

Percival nodded solemnly the way soldiers do when they go off to war, and smiled, cradling his face with smooth hands, and planting a firm kiss on his forehead, “I shall look harder then.”

Several nights after being freed, Credence remained wide awake. Other nights he barely rested, waking up at dawn with puffy eyes, and nodding drowsily throughout the day. Nonetheless, the worst nights were those in which fear and something else, that unnamable being, took hold of him, leaving his body to quiver and thrash in Percival’s arms after surfacing from sordid nightmares. Nights in which he felt the contours of his body dematerializing into smoky tendrils that filled the room with its unnerving presence.

Percival’s eyes would go wide as full moons, but he succeeded in talking his darkness down with soft words and whispered reassurances. It was an unsustainable situation, and they both knew it. What they ignored, for it remained a distant dot in an abyss of black, was how much longer they’d have to acquiesce the ever-impending Obscurus.

Despite feeling like a terrible burden, Credence was starting to wholeheartedly believe Percival wished him by his side, Obscurial or not.

It didn’t take him many more days to come across a possible remedy, though he was rather reluctant to share with Credence its specifics, arguing it probably wouldn’t work.

“Percival…” prompted Credence.

It was late noon and they were, for a change, outside the cottage, seated on the large rocks at the back of the terrain. Percival had assured Credence no one would come their way. The structure was completely concealed, out of sight, hearing, scent, and touch. If anyone came walking by they’d see an empty clearing, and would have an inexplicable urge to turn the other side and be on their way.

“You promised,” he chided, aware it was a low blow, but reluctant to abandon the possibility of exorcising his demon.

Percival exhaled loudly, “I know.”

The month of April had fluttered away, and May had rolled in, extending its sunnier days lazily. The foliage of the trees turned a richer shade of green, the soil retained its moistened look. As night was approaching the temperature had dropped, Credence was wrapped in a blanket, knees tucked beneath his chin. He squinted at Percival, but the glower had the adverse effect, and the other simply grinned, and rubbed the back of his neck; his other hand buried in the front pocket of his breeches.

“Obscurials may be the the most powerful and unpredictable of magic users known to this day, Credence. The energy they contain – _you_ contain, is incalculable, even after being tightly suppressed for so long, and because of that same reason, turned sour. That’s what makes this ritual all the more dangerous. We do not know how either you or the obscurus will react. It has protected you from peril before, but if we actively attempt to remove it, it could retaliate and kill you instantly.”

“But… You said it can’t survive outside of me,” he argued trying to keep up.

“That is true, my boy,” he agreed proudly, “But this is not a reasoning creature, this is a parasitic entity, one that can easily overpower you, and which is nearly, if not impossible, to control.”

“But do you agree then,” he insisted, “it would be best to… banish it?”

“Yes,” Percival replied reflexively, “Without a doubt. But… As I thought, old magic is to be employed. Sangromancy, to be more specific. It would be dangerous, and there’s no guarantee it will work, seeing as there are no records of anyone ever attempting to remove an Obscurus.”

“Sangromancy?”

“Yes. Blood magic. Blood is, after all, our life force. Because it is vital many wizards used to practice it to enhance the efficacy of their rituals,” Percival gave him time to grasp his meaning, “The text made mention of another practice. Sex magick.”

Credence felt the tips of his ears burning. He wanted to detract his gaze from Percival’s, but he had insisted vehemently, and paying any less heed would make him come across as rude.

“Oh, I didn’t know,” he mumbled gracelessly.

Percival shifted his gaze, perhaps to give Credence a chance to recover from the revelation, “There’s no reason why you should. It’s an outdated practice, if I recall well. Some witches and wizards still practice it, but it’s only used to achieve very specific goals because it garners such high amounts of energy. It heightens the senses, can put one in a deep trance, and is also used as a means to transcend corporality. Hence why the common wizard forgot about it,” he glanced at Credence from the corner of his eye, “Anyway, according to various authors and anonymous texts, the combination of both blood magic and sex magick is the most potent for complex rituals, including those of expulsion and cleansing, which is what we’d be doing if we were to expel the Obscurus.”

A tawny owl hooted high up in a branch, and shadows had begun to appear behind the trunks of trees. The rock felt cooler against Credence’s palms.

“I trust you, Percival. But I haven’t done _that_ , or any of the sort,” he admitted, feeling an angry blush spreading all over his face, “It would be sinful to taint one’s body with such acts if not blessed by holy marriage, and only then to seek a child for the glory of the Lord,” Credence bit his lip, remembering the many homilies of the minister, “But I… If you think it could help, I think we should try.”

Percival stared at him for a long minute, his shoulders were not squared as they had been before the conversation had unraveled. He stepped closer to Credence. Perched in the high rock as he was, he had to tilt his face upward to look at Percival, like a flower turning to the sun. Percival ran his knuckles along the curve of his cheekbone, and he couldn’t help leaning into the touch. Inside his stomach a flock of wild butterflies whiffled.

“Very well then, my boy.”

He could feel Percival’s eyes scorching him, same as a roaring fire, as they traveled downward, to his lips. Credence averted his stare, an ebullient heat expanding along his neck and across his chest, making every inch of his skin tingle.

When Percival next spoke, his voice was still calm, but its previous rawness didn’t saturate his words, “I promise I won’t hurt you. This is not how your first time should go, but I shall be gentle.”

“Thank you,” Credence managed to croak out, face spluttered in red.

Aided by Percival he got off the rock, and wrapped the blanket tighter around his frame. Their footsteps back to the cottage were slow-paced, idle. There was no hurry. For all it mattered, they could’ve laid the blanket on the ground, and slept under the starry black alcove. Perhaps one day they would.

Percival’s flat voice chimed in, “Sex should be something you share with someone special, because you love them or like them. Sometimes you do it only because you _want_ to do it, but not because you feel forced to,” the look on his eye was apologetic, “I wish it didn’t have to be like this for you, Credence.”

Credence pondered his words. Percival never said anything about marriage or chastity, or how wrong it was to practice sex for any other reason than to bring a child into the world. He didn’t say it was a greater sin if such act was shared between two men. Didn’t say it was an abomination, or an unnatural deviance, as the scriptures sustained.

Percival only wished Credence’s first time was with someone he cared for, and not to dispel of his demon. Yet again Credence wished there was no Obscurus to begin with.

“Me too.”

After two more days of ancient book studies, and two nights filled with nightmares that left Credence a smoky trembling pile on the floor, Percival announced over breakfast he knew as much as there was to know about the banishment.

“Banishing spells work better a few days after the full moon, that is in about a week”, he said after a mouthful of pear tartlet, “But we’ll do it whenever you feel ready. I would not pressure you into something like this, Credence, you are aware of that.”

Credence halted his spoon in midair. Then he came back to himself, and gulped down his bite. Expectation roiled in his gut.

His nerves had teased him ever since that speech outside the cottage. Every night, before falling asleep, he sensed the weight and heat and scent that emanated from Percival. He wondered the feel of his bare, sweaty skin. The taste of it. Although he knew it was only for the sake of the ritual, he couldn’t quench his misplaced fervor.

Under the table his toes curled, “I’ll be ready when the moon is.”

Percival nodded decidedly. His dark brows were set, same as the firm line his lips drew. His noble determination to help settled his expression into something that tore Credence’s heart.

“Good,” the wizard uttered. Then he stood up and walked to the front door, taking his jacket off the rack, and looking at his reflection on the small mirror though his eyes seemed to be looking right through it.

Percival had to meet with another wizard who worked for the Council three towns up north. They were to trade information and discuss the events, draw conclusions and possible solutions the Council would not take at heart’s value. “Tedious”, the wizard had said, “but necessary.”

He’d promised Credence the night before, he’d be back by supper, but it still filled him with dread, Percival’s departure. It always did. Every evening the same nagging feeling invaded his muscles and bones, the terror that Percival wouldn’t cross the threshold of their home, wouldn’t hold Credence in the welcoming embrace of his arms.

“I will check the wards before leaving. Just in case,” he looked dashing in his embroidered silk suit. The dark shades he preferred, contrasted terribly well with the tones of his complexion, the high cravat emphasized the elegance of his jaw and neck, the stylish coat complimented the straight breadth of his shoulders.

Credence blinked dazedly, and swallowed another mouthful of porridge.

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me for something like that,” Percival countered amused, “The Council would kick me out its ranks faster than you could say Wampus if I were reckless enough not to revise my own wards.”

Credence smiled at having recognized the Wampus reference. Percival had told him all about Ilvermorny and its four houses.

“Alright,” he assented. And then, because he didn’t want Percival to leave with a simple ‘ _alright_ ’, Credence plucked up his courage, and strode towards him, awkwardly putting his arms around him, and murmuring another ‘ _thank you_ ’ against the expensive clothes.

Percival patted his back, and, without the ungainliness that soaked Credence from head to toe, kissed his temple, as if it were easy, and didn’t weaken the back of Credence’s knees.

“Be safe, my boy. I’ll be back soon.”

The week leading up to the full moon passed by in a flurry.

Credence felt joyous excitement sparkling within him, thundering and stomping, hitting him most forcefully whenever Percival was within his orbit, which was to say, all the time Percival was home. What before could be masked as sheer curiosity about the mysterious wizard, converted into a sick desire to know him better, emotionally and physically. Prayers directed at God didn’t sate his hunger, nor did they quietened his jittering, excitable nerves.

He would chase after the man’s warmth, seeking that familiar comfort that placated the uneasiness of his Obscurus most effectively.

Safely tucked in the wilderness, Credence permitted his instinct to be closer to Percival to flourish. And Percival never shunned him, or turned him away, never rolled to the other side of the bed, or complained when Credence annihilated the inches between their bodies as they sat in companionable silence before the fireplace.

Percival had picked up a Bible for Credence, and, at first, he found some solace in its verses. Nevertheless, he began to analyze what he read, many times questioning the morals and connotations of the stories, often seeking Percival’s opinion about his God. More and more, Credence encountered wickedness in the scriptures, but there was goodness too. The Lord, it seemed, was not who Mary Lou and Bartholomew and the minister claimed.

And so, in finding his own voice Credence began to listen to his body too. A body that reacted to Percival’s proximity with acute clarity, that seemed to vibrate each time Percival fed his words to the shell of his pinkened ear, that roused early in the morning with traces of his shameful dreams.

Finally, after what appeared an eternity, the date arrived.

It began like any other day. The same trill of the birds and whooshing of the wind, the same tranquility while breaking fast, the same hollow feeling when Percival left, and the same emptiness of the hours spent without him, but the expectation of his return intensified tenfold.

When the creatures of the night came out of their lairs, and the alabaster moon clambered its way up to stare at the lands splayed at her feet, Credence felt his stomach churn. They had a light supper, but every bite had been heavy and squashy in Credence’s mouth.

And then it was time for the ritual to commence.

Percival guided him to the bedroom wherein candles were arranged in a large circle on the floor. It seemed every bit as evil as the puritan mind could muster. “Maybe Mary Lou wasn’t so wrong after all”, a voice whispered in his brain. But he trusted Percival, he’d pushed him into doing this, and he wasn’t about to back down due to long-ingrained beliefs he no longer agreed with.

“I wish I knew of a less obtrusive way to remove the Obscurus, my boy.”

Percival had stressed the evolution magic had undergone, especially in the last two centuries, but the old pull of a more primitive power still thrummed.

“Magic –power, comes from a body’s energy. No one knows why a person is born with magic. What sets us apart from no-majs, perhaps, is no more than dumb chance. But it is all about the energy, Credence.”

And it made sense, what Percival said. Although Credence doubted he would ever become a good wizard, or if he would even be brave enough to carry that title without cowering at the memory of the cross, he had always felt connected to his body in a manner that wasn’t typical for those around him, like Modesty or Chastity. He could feel, especially lately, currents of energy churning in his blood. At night, it had been worse; when Mary Lou and Bartholomew had him beat up and shivering in the cold with only a threadbare shirt covering his back, praying to an unforgiving God for mercy; on such nights, so long ago, he could’ve tear down the walls of Jericho or crush Babel to the ground, so powerful he felt.

Also, the days spent in the cell had dissipated the fog in his eyes. Goodness was not owned by a single path, it diverged into many affluents. When Percival had gone to his rescue, he knew there was kindness in him, the type that was pure and asked for nothing in return. The first weeks in the cottage Credence had been nothing but a nuisance, a liability, a good-for-nothing youth, but the man had come for him, and, like a savior of the Old Testament, swoop him from certain death.

“It’s alright if you do not wish to do it this way anymore, Credence,” Percival was giving him a last chance to say no, to elude a mound of sins that had nothing to do with witchcraft and everything to do with temptations of the flesh.

But Credence, sinner that he was, wanted to see the ritual through.

“I want to. I want to banish this evil from my soul. I want you to help me, Percival,” despite aiming for a strong tone, his last words broke around the edges and cut him, making him seem more vulnerable before the man.      

Percival walked up to him, and it was blissful relief to have him so near, to feel his well-built body slotting against his own. His hand cupped the back of Credence’s head, and he couldn’t help inhaling the musky scent of his neck. Credence hadn’t meant to, but, from his eyes, rebellious tears made their way down the slope of his cheek and onto Percival’s white shirt. Only the darkness stirring within him was an indicator that the moment was more than a hopeful dream.

For the first time in his life, Credence was grateful for his evil, the Obscurus.

In the dank warmth of Percival’s skin, he felt the grave cadence of his voice, “Energy is a vital force, Credence. And as I told you, it manifests itself directly in the blood. If I cut you, you will bleed, and if you do not stop the bleeding, you’ll die. Do you understand that?”

He nodded because he did. The villagers practice bloodletting to free a person from evil humors when illness hit. It was common knowledge.

“Just to be absolutely clear about this: We are going to need blood to make the banishing spell work. Your blood and mine both. I know this may seem frightening to you right now, for it _is_ frightening. I have never performed this kind of spell before, but I’ve done enough research to know the gist of it, and the possible outcomes should the ritual go askew,” he stared at Credence, and there was gentleness in his eyes as well as deep regret that nearly caused Credence’s knees to buckle under his weight, “I will be with you every step of the way, darling. You haven’t fear.”

“Alright,” he replied sheepishly.

Percival hadn’t voiced his inquiry, but Credence heard it nonetheless. He didn’t have anything to lose. His family and the locals had turned their backs on him; he was an outcast, a pariah. If it were for them he’d be hanging in the town square, an example for everyone else not to submit to the devil. Compared to their kindness or lack thereof, Percival was a god of mercy, and even though the blasphemy still made him tremble, a part of him knew he was right. He confided in Percival, he was a good man, a powerful one, and maybe he was God’s gift to Credence for all the suffering he had endured in his life.

It started slow, like the changing hues of the leaves when autumn strolls in sluggishly. Percival took a step back, and, with deft fingers, undid the buttons of Credence’s shirt, divesting him of the garment with swift, confident motions.

Shame boiled in Credence’s core, but it was buried deep within his bones, and above it, like a substance, a layer of desire and expectation floated. He was rotten because beyond the needful reasons that brought this act about, he was moved by a lunge of sinful lust.

That the holy scriptures reviled a man lying with another mattered little to Credence, especially when Percival’s hands traveled southward, to the front of his breeches and undid them as well, letting them fall at his ankles, exposing the pale length of his lanky legs. He felt much too thin and inadequate, a famished sight, unworthy of a handsome gentleman like Percival Graves. Exposed from head to toe, there was no concealment for the flush that spread like a bonfire over his chest, or the hardening of his prick. On his nape, a hot weight bore him down, but he dared not cover himself, and betray the last shred of his dignity. What they were doing, what was about to transpire, was solely a mean to get rid of the Obscurus, as Percival had said.

“Please lie down,” muttered Percival, gesturing to portion of the floor circled by white candles, and over which a white symbol had been painted. He didn’t recognize the sigil, but it seemed rudimentary and old.

He felt silly and unsure, like a tiny mouse hiding under the wood planks of the granary. The flicking flames were distracting, and they kept him warm despite being nude, but all too soon his gaze shifted, and fixed on Percival. Just like Credence he was stripping down. Little by little, more of him was unveiled, the peeling of the coat exposed a shirt, then the shucking of said shirt revealed a lean, muscled chest, lightly dusted by fine hairs. Perhaps he had stopped breathing, perhaps the air had gone from his lungs to his head and flummoxed his brain, but truth be told, Credence felt dizzy, as if a pressure was keeping him underwater, as if he couldn’t draw a single breath. While he struggled to appear nonchalant, Percival tossed off his boots, dark trousers followed suit.

Where Credence was slim, Percival was toned. He could’ve defeated Credence in an instant, yet he had always been so painfully tender. Were he to beat him like Mary Lou did, the boy wouldn’t have survived, not only because Percival surpassed the woman’s strength, but because a strike from him would shatter Credence’s whole world.

He started to sweat cold then, heart ricocheting against the bony walls of his ribcage. He wanted to jump out of his skin, to fall asleep, and awake once the ritual had been completed. Tense anticipation nipped at his skin.

Pleading for Percival to start the ritual wouldn’t do them any favors though. He was not an expert on ancient banishments, and Credence did not wish to infect him with worry.

“Is it going to hurt?” he asked, mainly to fill the silence since he didn’t care much for the pain, he was used to it.

Percival winced as he set herbs and incenses alight, their pungent aroma pervading the room, and making Credence feel heavier but somehow more awake too. “It shouldn’t. But I do have to cut you to draw the blood.”

Credence hummed and waited for Percival to ignite the rest of the sundries. His movements lacked all bashfulness. He seemed comfortable in his nakedness, disregarding Credence’s blatant ogling. He even smiled when he caught him staring at his half-erect member.

“These are alkanet, yarrow, sandalwood, and rue. They’re known for their cleansing properties,” he said, pointing to the ignited leaves.

Plants weren’t Credence’s forte, but he recognized a name or two. He liked that Percival took the time to explain what was going on, if only to not let him feel like an utter fool. All the same, Credence was a stupid, wicked boy, and now Percival felt it his duty to help him despite having to commit shameful atrocities in his behalf. If there was any goodness left in Credence, he would run back into the woods and let himself be killed by a feral wolf. Thus, he wouldn’t contaminate Percival, but he wasn’t good. Not anymore. Perhaps never had been. And because of that he was here, in need of a banishment spell, about to have his blood spilled, and his body soaked in carnal sin in the hopes of scourging the evil that dwelled within him.

Outside the wind whistled, it sounded like a croon, a lullaby of sorts, gently swaying the branches, and singing the creatures to sleep. The crackling of the fireplace resonated too. He would’ve fallen asleep if it wasn’t for Percival, who was now kneeling by his side, staring down at him, and telling him it would be over soon, “It will be just fine, trust me.”

Then a black sash was wrapped around his head, and he couldn’t see anymore. “Loosen up, Credence. I need you to focus for me.”

He was lying on the wood floor, but he might as well be falling. Percival’s voice seemed to barely reach him from another world, a place so far away Credence could hardly hear him. Dark, strange, it was the prison cell all over again. In his mind, the squeaking of rats thundered, their ghosts gliding against his bare skin.

“Credence. Focus on my voice. I need you to breathe,” instructions were easy to follow, so that he did. He concentrated on the low, gruff intonations of Percival’s voice, clinging to them as his seams started to unwind.

“Focus on the sound of the wind. Do you hear it, sweet boy?”

Yes, of course he did. It was a lament and an ode, mingled in a beautiful melody, swirling just outside the walls. It was gentle but it was strong, and then he was wafting just like a leaf, being pulled and pushed by the airy currents.

“Do you feel the warmth of the candles, Credence? Focus on that too,” he was speaking lower, but Credence heard him clear, like mellow cream lathering over Credence. Now the heat intensified, it was doubtlessly gnawing at his flesh. Warm, too warm. The same heat of the candles had invaded his body, and it twisted at the base of his spine, spreading lower, unfolding between his legs. He was pulsing, thrumming, his hips canted upward.

 Shame was a feeling he scarcely had room for in his heart, his mind. Not then. A sudden rush of blood traveled downward, and then his cock was curving against the flat expanse of his belly. Hot, heavy, desperate for release.

Percival’s hands were on his thighs, keeping him ground to the floor. Credence wanted those hands higher, but he couldn’t ask that of him. He couldn’t ask anything, only take whatever the man deemed fair and necessary to give him.

“Now, inhale. Deeply. Go on.”

Credence did as he was told, his nostrils filling with strong scents. The odor combination was potent, he could feel it almost solid, as it made its way into his lungs.

Though deprived of his sight, the rest of his senses overwhelmed Credence. He felt a sudden urge to kiss Percival, to thank him for the lengths he was willing to go for him. Yet his tongue was but a knot in his mouth, and his brain was saddled with fever. In his ears, Percival’s voice rang, he was speaking words Credence tuned out, perhaps because they seemed to belong to another language. A monologue, almost chanted, that arched Credence’s spine, and intensified the blooming heat behind the swell of his sack. It was humiliating to say the least, but there was comfort in knowing part of his delirium was caused by the incantation and the ritual itself.

Hot wax dribbled on his chest, but he barely felt it, for his lower half was starting to burn up with zest. He could feel the Obscurus scraping his insides, threating to storm out, and burn the whole of Bay Colony to ashes.

All that stood between doom and salvation, was Percival, whom he could not see, and could barely feel. There wasn’t nearly enough of his skin in contact with Credence’s, even his hands had abandoned his thighs.

Seconds passed like fractured eternities, Credence’s heart slowed down, but it was only the calm before the storm. The air compressed around him, and at long last, a disruption. Percival’s voice and the clink of glass.

“I shall start the ritual now, Credence. Please _do_ feel free to object if you experience any discomfort, it’s do not want to hurt you, my boy. Ask me to stop if it becomes too much,” his voice had hitched up at the end, as if questioning, so Credence nodded and took a deep breath.

Then his wrists were being tied, arms outstretched. The same happened with his legs, which, secured by ties, were obscenely spread out. Had he wanted to quit, it was too late now despite whatever Percival may say.

The pulse of his heart thrummed in his veins, but more curiously, in the most intimate part of his body. Perhaps the man could see him, see his disgrace. Maybe he was disgusted, yet thanks to the sash, Credence was unaware of it. He needn’t see revulsion in his savior’s face; he could live in delightful ignorance.

“Please,” he begged with a whimper, twisting on the floor, attempting to grind his hips. If the devil possessed his soul already, then he might as well plead to have his evil ravished out of him.

He heard a quiet grunt, and then Percival’s finger drew lines on his chest. Surely one of the symbols he’d seen drawn on a piece of parchment.

The ink was Percival’s blood.

Then he heard water splashing in the vase, and later, the dull thud of a cloth falling to the ground. He wanted to ask what was going on, but he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t negatively affect the spell.

Shortly after, a slippery digit probed at his entrance, the touch light and alien. “It’s alright. I will take care of you, sweet boy.”

Little else was there for him to do other than wait, wait and struggle to contain the Obscurus, to keep it tightly leashed in the confines of his bones. Yet it was difficult. With each stretched-out minute he felt like coming apart. The room was filled with his pathetic whimpers and mewls, the fact that Percival had not scolded him for it was nothing short of a miracle.

The pressure at his entrance increased, as did the unrepentant writhing of his body. But then, after various futile attempts of getting the entirety of the digit inside his sinful heat, Percival succeeded, and rhythmically thrusted at a comfortable, yet agonizing pace.

And then Credence was spilling his load all over his own skin, while Percival jerked out the last streams out of him.

If Mary Lou could see him now, she’d beat him bloody, tear the flesh out of him with wrathful lashes while raining down the righteous fury of God on him. Bartholomew would simply watch, contempt boiling in his sockets.

But he was far from the Barebones. He was being taken care of by Percival.

Obeying Percival’s previous command, Credence refocused on what his senses could perceive, tact now included. And that one was the most delightful, because Percival’s finger was fully buried in his tight channel, curling in search of something, being sucked in by the dilated muscle.

“Pardon me if this is mildly unpleasant,” said Percival after Credence let out a rather keen sob.

Trapped in blackness, he was overawed, tears stinging at the back of his tired eyes. He didn’t know if they were open or close anymore, it made no difference, “No, no,” he choked out, the response strangled around his windpipe, “It’s good.”

Percival didn’t answer, not verbally, instead he retrieved the finger only to push in anew, this time with two digits. It was a solitary addition, nonetheless the burn of the stretch was greater, even when helped by more slick. Credence welcomed it. The pain of sodomy was no heavenly atonement, but it was a start.

“I know this feels rather intense, Credence, but I need you to hold tight. You cannot let the Obscurus take a hold of you, not yet. Not until I say otherwise. You must remember that,” Percival announced breathily. Credence tried to calm the wantonness of his body.

Heavy drops pattered against the window pane, providing Percival’s chant with a background texture.

“Sanguis et vitalis vis, liberta hanc animam meam. Ejice hunc malignum obscurum,” Credence hadn’t the faintest idea what Percival’s words meant, but it didn’t matter. He was being pleasantly carried away by it, in spite of the incessant humming of the Obscurus.

Outside rain poured down with greater intensity, as if in tandem with the passion Credence was experiencing. He wondered if it was all a coincidence, but he suspected that wasn’t the case.

Percival’s fingers stretched the reluctant ring of muscle, the Latin chant now a washed-out litany broken by the loud moan that was ripped out of Credence’s throat as the digits brushed against a sensitive spot inside of him.

With another finger Percival stretched him further. Credence wondered if he could die from this slow-administered pleasure, wondered how long ago Percival had started the stable pumping that had him feeling like an ablaze coal.

“…relinquit hoc corpus… Credence, I’m going to enter you now, alright? I need you to unwind. I will walk you through this, just – just focus on your senses, darling. It will all be over soon. And breathe.”

“Yes, yes, sir Percival. Please,” he was soaked in sweat, not only due to Percival’s clever ministrations, though that was a reason he would happily endure again anytime, but also because of the Obscurus that kept coiling and unfurling, attempting to break through Credence’s flesh and wreak maelstrom.

Nonetheless, focusing on his breathing and everything that was perceptible to his senses, as Percival advised, helped. The air was heady with the many scents of herbs and flames and sweat and blood and magick. He was all but squirming, eager to have Percival proceed with the next part of the ritual.

The stertorous quality of his gasps flapped inside his chest, and tumbled from his lips. He only wished he could see Percival instead of merely feeling the touch of his skin, but they had agreed on the sash to make it as objective as it possibly was in such a situation. Still, dread clasped his heart, it felt as if the Obscurus was overriding him, as if the evil darkness would prevail, and his weak body would succumb to its force.

“Credence?”

The empty weight of Percival hovering above him, without Credence being able to touch or see him, was asphyxiating in its own way, much as the difficulty to restrain the lecherous moans that escaped him while Percival’s grip massaged with purpose his once again hardened length, paying close attention to the crown, swirling his thumb ever so lightly across the slit.

“I – I… Percival?” he croaked, the words lost in the storm that was swelling outside.

“Yes, my boy?”

“Would you… take the sash off?” and then he elaborated quickly, almost stumbling over his words, “I want to see you, I won’t last much longer with it on.”

Silence, and then Percival said, “If you’re certain…”

With the blind off it was easier to ground himself to what was happening, which was not to say the experience became underwhelming. On the contrary, looking at Percival, nude and flushed and disheveled, made the pool of heat burn hotter inside Credence. Besides feeling the fingers digging inside and on the jut of his hip, he could see the flexing muscles on Percival’s forearm, the tight resolve of his lips.

The room smelled intoxicatingly, and the aroma was undermining Credence’s faculties. His mind was falling out of himself while his goose-bumped flesh whined madly.

Percival chanced a glance his way, and, encouraged by whatever he saw written on Credence’s face, he took himself in hand and lined up the head of his cock with the chaste entrance.

Credence could’ve melted right then, same as the wax of a candle. The point of contact was unbearable, slippery and stingy, it hurt, but the pain was tolerable, and, devil take his soul, it was delightful too. His body seemed greedy to pull Percival deeper into the snug hole, yet tied as his limbs were, leverage was an impossibility. Percival was the captain of the industry, his slow lunges conquering the most intimate space of Credence’s body, eliciting debauched, hoarse sounds from his raw throat.

The force of the Obscurus receded in Credence’s mind, it stayed put, giving room to pleasure, buzzing softly and stroking his organs, amounting to the need of get sweet relief once more.

Lastly, Percival’s cock was fully sheathed inside Credence. The sensation was bizarre and not as pleasant as he imagined in the plethora of his shameful dreams. Like being filled to the brim, stretched out like tenderized meat. More than anything though, having Percival inside, swollen and throbbing, was paradise.

Thereby, while easing his inhalations, Percival’s heated eyes contemplated his face, the sides of his nose trembling. He began to jostle his hips forward, like waves washing ashore, first hesitantly, slowly, dragging back leisurely, then pushing into Credence’s clasping hollowness in the same manner. After a few more thrusts, with Percival’s full-blown eyes on him, Credence started to move in return, coupling each of Percival’s thrusts with shoves of his own, chasing the sense of being opened so obscenely.

Lightnings were kissing him all over, pricking and nipping, arching his back, and driving him down a spiral of erotic madness, making him beg for Percival never to stop, to go harder and faster, to ruin him with divine wrath, and flood a diluvium inside of him.

The tempest outside seemed to match Credence in desperation, thunders struck with ferocity and drowned the lewd squelching noises their groins produced when colliding time and time again, growing more frantic each time as their energies blended.

Credence felt about to explode. It was akin to the auguring feeling at the underside of his flesh before he woke up in the woods, scratched and bruised all over. Nevertheless, what reigned over him now was not the same evil. It was something just as powerful but a thousand times more pleasing and devastating. Tears welled up his eyes, “Percival…,” he practically mewled, fascinated by the evident discomposure of the man.

“It will be fine, my dearest boy,” illuminated by the fickle light of the candles, he appeared to Credence a beautiful specter. A smear of blood tainted the side of his jaw, “I want to you to unravel, Credence. Let out those lovely moans of yours. Be as vocal and blunt as you wish. Though perhaps I should—“ his voice was like molten molasses, his hips plunged forward, hard, “-- give you a reason to do so.”

The unbridled passion combined with the overwhelming Obscurus roasting his insides, made Credence feel as if he were inside a fireplace, though hell would be a more fitting term; as if he were wasting away by means of hellish punishment, a foul sinner being sweetly tormented for the wickedness of his soul. Like Percival was the devil himself, executing an unyielding sentence, scourging him by granting that which he most viciously craved for, but intensified, with bolts bending his spine and a cannonade of blows plowing his rear.

Percival’s hands were placed on his shoulders for purchase, the planes of his abdomen tautened by the continuous effort. There was fierceness in his stare, a predatory intent, eager to devour him. However, that assumption could well be but an extension of Credence’s lust-fogged head.

He wanted more from Percival though, more than the blood he spilled and the energy of his innermost core, the proficiency of his body in making Credence’s back curve up to the ceiling. He wanted more skin, to have the weight of him draped atop his own frame, their heated, sweat-soaked bodies merging, mingling into a substance beyond coherency, becoming a unique organism that beat and breathed and gasped together. Climaxed together. He wished Percival could feel what he was feeling, the delectable punch at the pit of his belly with each penetration, the thrill of the Obscurus avid to escape as if holy water slipping through his fingers. He wanted Percival’s mouth melding with his, to feel the push of his wet tongue, the sharpness of his teeth.

Like God answering to his worshipper’s prayer, Percival leaned down, puffs of his warm breath condensing the skin of Credence’s neck and jaw, “My perfect boy, you’re doing great, Credence,” and then he slid farther down, and worried one of Credence’s nipples in between his lips. The erect bud overly sensitive.

Credence cried out.

“Is that something you like, dear?” He did it again, licking, then biting just hard enough to tear more indecent noises from Credence, whimpers and pitiful screeches.

The flow of his charges didn’t relent, slower but all the bolder, he continued thrusting inside the breached opening, hitting more often than not the bundle of nerves that had Credence dangling at the edge of ecstasy.

Credence who, up until then, was unaware this unheavenly amount of pleasure could be derived from one of the greatest sins appointed by the Lord. Credence who had given free rein to his salacious side, no longer able to swallow his wickedness.

“Please --Percival, please, touch me,” he whined, impatient to feel closer.

That there was no more intimate touch other than the one their hips were eloquently undulating to went unsaid. Percival knew him well enough, better than anyone ever. He knew Credence found comfort in being cradled, that he slept better if he could listen to a heartbeat, that body heat made the apples of his cheeks come alive, that ‘ _touch me’_ was a long-lived plea neither of them spoke of. A plea for intimacy of the romantic kind, a plea for their bodies to fuse and their words to die in a kiss.

“Please,” Credence repeated.

When Percival kissed him, it was as if everything else had stopped or turned to nothingness. He tasted of magic and fire and danger. His lips were gentle, molding against the seams of his mouth, seeking permission to delve, and Credence parted granted it, imagining himself the red sea parting for Moses. He was yoked to Percival. As he’d parted his soul then his legs, now he’d parted his lips. A part of Percival decanted all itself into Credence, and the beast battering his insides seemed angrier by this.

Credence envisioned vapor leaving his flesh, he was combusting in an endless whirl of energy.

“Come on, Credence. Hold on a little longer. It won’t be long now,” Percival muttered against his temple.

The Obscurus wrestled tougher, “No, no, I can’t. Not anymore.”

Percival gripped his cock by the base, firm yet not unkind, “Only a little bit longer, my boy.”

Credence gulped and nodded, he couldn’t disappoint Percival, not after all the trouble he’d put him through. The ritual needed to be completed successfully, if so, then the Obscurus would be gone. He could feel it rattling his bones, hammering his heart and brain, shuddering every vertebra, filching him of proper reason. Yet trying not to abandon himself wasn’t easy for someone so inexperienced, and who knew so little about the sins of the flesh. 

“How do you feel?” asked Percival, wiping a tear that had rolled down his cheekbone.

He could only moan. His wrists ached and so did his ankles, come morning there was no doubt they would be chafed.

Percival pacified him with a shower of fleeting kisses as his whimpers grew in frequency and acuity.

Credence shut his eyes and then a faraway pain sliced him, a blade digging into his skin.

“Sanguinem et vitalis vis, liber haec anima mea…,” the chant felt more powerful now with all the rampant energy released, maximized by the ardor and their magic. The words made his frame tremble and open, like the grounds after an earthquake.

Credence susurrated Percival’s name time and time again, exceedingly aware of every sensation his body experienced, mindful of Percival fracturing him so sinfully good, conscious of his soul shattering under the strain of the Obscurus.

When he felt warm liquid landing over his belly, he was too far gone in his daze to even notice he had come. Thereafter Percival quickened his pace, and the Obscurus ascended to his pores. He was being ripped and torn like a ragdoll. Arms extended, he remembered the son of God, the blasphemy did not even register.

“Let go now, Credence. Let the Obscurus go now,” the words leaked like dense liquid in his ear, and wormed their way inside his head. Percival bit his earlobe, the fatigue not deterring him from ramming into his body.

Dark bile rose to Credence’s throat, and he felt another orgasm yanked from his spent cock.

Percival trapped his lips once more in a kiss. It was a bruising affair, no finesse or elegance, just desperate clashing of teeth and tongues, the manic need to consume one another.

Nerves shook Credence, his whole body spasmed for long seconds in which a blaring thunder rang so loudly everything turned into white noise. Furthermore, his surroundings transformed into the blackest of nights, while his body flailed as if he were one of the afflicted.

It was dark, and not a drop pattered against the windows. Percival’s sounds had died too.

A river of flames licked him raw, and then he was rising from the bed of gravel, emerging into waters that were so thick they choked him.

When he surfaced, it smelled of burnt herbs. Trembling gasps greeted his ears, his own. Percival was cupping his face, and murmuring warmhearted words.

“Calm down, my boy. Come back to me, that’s it,” he was saying.

He was out of the murky lake, but he could not breathe yet. There wasn’t enough air, and his lungs were too small, the room was closing in on him. Trapped, back in prison. Jailed in a hellish cavern. He was wicked and all of Salem knew it. He would hang for it.

“Hey, hey, Credence. Listen to me,” Percival’s hands were on his face, their eyes locked. Strands of black hair were falling in front of his worried face, “Breathe deeply now. Come on, do as I say, dear. Deep. In…,” Credence clung to the sound of his voice and did as he was told. It was always easy to follow orders, “…out. In… and out.”

Agonizingly slow, Credence came back to himself. His heart stopped its riotous galloping, and his hearing returned in gradual ripples.

Percival was propped on his elbow, watery eyes swamped with concern. He brought one of Credence’s hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of his wrist, reddened and oversensitive. He’d been untied, hands and feet.

“You blacked out for at least five minutes, Credence. I thought I’d fucked up for good.”

Credence did not answer, his throat felt mangled, twisted and broken in half.

“I think… I think it worked, Credence,” Percival explained, “I finished just as you let go. The energy and the spell, the blood… it all piled up. You yelled so hard I felt my eardrums splitting. And then you started to convulse in my arms as everything went pitch black. But you still lived, so I dare say that thick darkness was the Obscurus. It filled the whole room. Shortly after it disappeared, and then – then you weren’t coming back, my boy.”

Credence was stunned. At the same time, he was so terribly exhausted he could not think well, or fully grasp what Percival was telling him.

“Fuck, I thought I had killed you, Credence.”

Percival’s eyes brimmed with tears, and soon he was kissing Credence all over, wet, clumsy kisses, on his forehead and temples and cheeks and nose.

When he looked into Credence’s eyes, the latter could see terror there but relief too, “Do not _ever_ allow me to do anything like that to you, Credence. Ever.”

And then he leaned down, and kissed Credence on the lips, short and gentle.

The storm, that moments ago had threatened to turn the cottage into debris, had died down to a mild drizzle. Raindrops splashed melodically against the glass, resonating with every beat of Credence’s worn out heart.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the incredible delay :( my official excuse is Uni but in reality I only wrote when I felt like it. ALSO!!!! #dontjudgeme for that whole scene. THAT was one of the main reasons i wrote this fic in the first place lmao, that it got a little too wordy and serious at the beginning is not entirely my fault (tho it totally is). sorry if it was too wild of a twist, *crawls into a hole*  
> ___________________  
> special thanks to [ceciliasobral ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ceciliasobral/pseuds/ceciliasobral) for fixing my Latin<3

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr! [elvishflower](http://elvishflower.tumblr.com/)


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